A Lost Son's Return
by Waffles Risa
Summary: What happens when Loki faces his father once again after the events of Avengers? Will Odin punish him in anger, or accept Loki back as a son once thought dead, but now alive? Set right after the end of the Avengers movie. Some mild spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**Right. I work as a beta, but this is my first ever fanfic, so bear with me – the following is the product of a need to get extreme Loki fangirling out of my system. Watched Avengers on the 29****th**** of April, and couldn't help imagining exactly what happens after Thor and Loki disappear off to Asgard. So this fic is written for all those people out there who know that Loki is the most intricate/adorable/brilliant character in Avengers. Oh, and I don't own the Avengers, so don't sue me!**

Two figures stand in the glare of bright sunlight, one with a cape of regal scarlet, the other perpetually cast in half-shadow.

"You need not fear, Loki. Father will be glad to hear of your return." Thor fingers the handle of Mjolnir, addressing the young man with piercing green eyes.

The scathing look that Loki gives the Prince of Asgard betrays none of his emotions.

Thor's hand holds one handle of the Tesseract before him, his eyes expectant. Loki, deprived of words by the delicate metal binding his mouth, glares at the figures around him. _A pitiful handful of mortals. An idiot clothed in ridiculous mortal metal, one that fights with primitive weapons – and red and blue spandex? _ His brother – no, no longer his brother – clears his throat slightly. Loki rolls his eyes, and an elegant hand reaches forward, grasping the Tesseract's handle.

An ethereal white curls around Loki, and the scene before him fades into the distance, as an ephemeral dream lost in the shades of time. In that one instant of privacy, when the power of the Tesseract shields his face from prying eyes, Loki allows his mask of indifference to melt away.

A whir of confused emotions and thoughts –

_Asgard._ Home? _Sunrise on the citadel parapet. An old memory, scattered sunlight, father smiling at two little boys tumbling through the grass, one with hair golden, one with eyes green._ But _Father_ – Odin! _What would he think, after all this time?_ _Hate. Scorn. Or –dare I think– Punishment? No!_

A thread of fear spikes, and Loki's eyes remain glazed with dread even as the white mist clears and his sight falls once again on the grand halls of Asgard.

(:~:)

Sunset on the citadel parapet. As the fire-streaked sky spins softly into dusk, an old man stands leaning on his golden staff, gazing into the reaches of the vaulted sky. The evening star rises, twinkling on the horizon. The king's posture is tinged with grief, and his mind sees farther than what mortal sight can perceive.

Then the world shifts ever so slightly, barely a whisper in a realm of silence.

Odin starts upright, displaying an unusual lack of calm. _Can it be…_ He turns just as the gilded double doors slam wide open, a breathless servant skidding to a halt before the startled King. "Forgive my lack of decorum, sire," the boy gasps. "But the prince has returned – "

"The prince only?" Odin cuts in quickly.

At this, the servant, unintelligent though he is, understands. "The prince has brought a prisoner with him –"

He has no chance to finish his sentence. Odin brushes past him without a word, leaving the servant alone in the echoing hall.

(:~:)

The glare of light dissipates into a shower of silver dew, revealing Thor standing upright in the middle of the throne room, one hand holding the Tesseract, with Loki before him, bound and gagged. Something has changed in the moment spent between worlds, for he no longer stands with his head held high in arrogance. On Earth, he was a God among Humans. On Asgard, a prisoner next to a prince.

Loki's eyes hold despair and, of all things - terror. It suddenly dawns on him that his father may be sitting behind him. He releases his grip on the Tesseract and whirls with predatory swiftness to face the throne, cloak flying in a flash of gold and green. An empty chair.

Loki breathes a sigh of relief, just as a dozen hands grip his collar and make to slam him headfirst into the ground. He just manages to stop his fall enough to land on his knees instead of his face, the cuffs opening a small cut on his wrist where they scrape painfully across his skin. The small gasp of pain is muffled by his gag. _Ah. Not a good idea to make sudden movements, then._

He holds his position, blood quietly dripping down his fingers, face expressionless. A second later, he hears Thor order his release, and the pressure on his head is lifted.

If Loki could voice his emotions, he would snarl at Thor right there and then for indicating that Loki needed his _brother's_ pity. He far preferred the violent treatment over his brother's hypocritical mercy. All Loki can manage is to place as much of his anger into one malevolent glare, holding his brother's gaze outside of the thicket of gleaming weapons pointing at him from all sides.

Then Loki hears the doors swing open behind him, and his father's name proclaimed to the throne room at large.

Strangely, Loki, though before so anxious to face his father with a proud and unrelenting stance, finds himself all but frozen to the ground. _Turn your head. _His body refuses to obey him. _Turn your head now! _ A muscle in his neck twitches.

Loki sighs in defeat and lowers his eyes to the floor, trepidation pulsing in tandem with his heartbeat.

(:~:)

Odin, having abandoned all kingly restraint, is pacing towards the throne room so quickly that he barely stops to straighten his expression into one of stern severity before the servant announces his entrance.

The scene seems to him as a moment framed in glass. His all-encompassing gaze sweeps across the room, tarrying briefly at Thor's minor stab wound. Then his sight falls upon Loki, who is kneeling facing away from the doors, and Odin's heart cries out at seeing his once-dead son alive before him.

Odin walks quietly over to where the brothers are, one kneeling, one standing. A pause. "Father", Thor acknowledges. Odin nods once. The spear-bearers part slightly to allow him to pass through, and he cannot help but soften his hard expression when his vision finally rests on his youngest son's face. Loki remains silent, and not a word escapes past his gag. His eyes are pointedly fixed on the ground before his cuffed hands, hands that are shaking ever so slightly.

Reaching out, Odin lays a hand on Loki's shoulder. Loki flinches away from his grip and shuts his green eyes tightly. "Look at your father, Loki," Odin whispers, "You have written your own fate."

Slowly, agonizingly, Loki raises his head. And as he meets Odin's stormy grey eyes, both father and son start backwards in surprise. Loki does not remember his father's face as so careworn and lined, nor so etched with sadness. And Odin is forcibly reminded of Loki as a little child of five or six, when Thor had tricked his brother into believing that Odin had declared grave punishment for a small act of magical mischief on Loki's part. On that day, Odin had found little Loki hidden in the recesses of a darkened room, shivering with something other than cold, head bowed in dark despair.

And now, Odin sees that little boy hidden in the depths of Loki's gaze.

Something shatters deep within Odin, and he lets his voice boom out across the length and breath of the throne room, reminiscent of thunder in its power and authority, "Let everyone but Loki leave my presence."

"But father, I –", Thor begins in protest.

"Including you, my son," Odin interjects, "I will speak with you later. Make sure you have that wound treated." His voice is soft.

Loki and Odin remain still and silent among the movement of the departing guards, like figures caught in an edge of time. The doors close with an ominous _click_.

Loki makes to look up at Odin, only to be engulfed in his father's embrace. He recoils in shock – Odin was a father who raised his sons by the codes of honour and bravery, and was never one for showing affection towards either boy, much less _embracing_ them. Loki's thoughts are a confused, scattered mess. _Is this a prelude to my punishment? What is this? _

He looks at his father with a questioning glance. He does not return the embrace.

Odin whispers simply, "My son." He releases his hold on him, only to notice the thin trickle of blood that pools on the cold marble near Loki's hands. Odin nudges the cuffs, and when they release with an insubstantial clack, he inspects the cuts with methodical care. Loki shifts his long fingers to rub his bruised wrists. "Do these pain you overmuch?" Odin asks.

Silence.

Loki regains some of his old cynicism in his expression. His eyes flick to his metal gag in a somehow sarcastic way.

Odin reaches forward and takes the gag away. Loki's mouth immediately twists into a sardonic half smile.

"No," Loki answers shortly. Then, "Are you not angry with me, _father_?" His voice is bitter and scornful.

Odin shakes his head. "I am far angrier than you have ever known me to be, Loki. My anger at your actions, and what you did to your brother – and your family – fills me with indescribable pain."

"Then act on it. Punish me whatever way you will. Throw me into the dungeons, torture me, bind my magic. Perhaps that will ease your heart." Loki's tone is almost bored, but his eyes gleam with a dark intensity.

"You do not understand. I am angered by what you have done, but for some reason beyond my knowledge, I feel no inclination to act on it. That may come in time. But I am so, so glad to see you again, Loki."

Loki looks at his father levelly, and sees truthfulness in every line of his father's being. But he would rather that Odin had lied – for his world of carefully constructed secrets and lies that had been created since that fateful day on Jotenheim is beginning to break and splinter under his father's words. In his mind, Thor and Odin are subjects of mutual hate, a façade that never really existed throughout Loki's childhood, a life spent constantly as the _second_ most important son. This is what Loki believes. Or believed? Some inner part of his soul wishes desperately for Odin's words to be true. But if it were, then the carefully structured hate that has fueled his actions for so long now will shrivel and die. _I will have achieved nothing._

Loki's inner torment must have reflected on his features, for Odin smiles sadly, offering a weathered hand. Loki contemplates this for a second, then takes it with one graceful motion and allows himself to be helped to his feet. Odin strides past him to the edge of the throne room, where the last rays of the setting sun casts one side of his face in fiery shadow. Loki, after a pause, walks lightly across to join him in the half-light. Below them, stretching into the distance, lies all the glimmering glory of Asgard, shining like a beacon in the darkening night. Only the Bifrost Bridge is marred in its iridescent beauty.

Father and son stand in silence for a little while, a cool wind dancing about their hair.

Loki uses this time to think, and order his thoughts. His conclusions seem strange, even to his own mind. _I do not hate my father. Thor, yes. But not my father. Perhaps one day I will gain what I deserve in regard to the throne. But this is not the right moment. _

Odin's quiet voice breaks across his thoughts, "My son, look upon Asgard. All of that which is mine has always been yours. Thor may be soon be king in name, but you know that I have never favoured him over you, Loki. Can you be content with only this? For this is all I can give you. Do you understand?"

Loki replies in an even softer tone, almost a whisper, "Yes." And after a moment, "Father."

At this, Odin's face shines with hidden pleasure, "Welcome home, my son."

And Loki inclines his head in reply.

The sun finally sets over Asgard, plunging the two figures into darkness. For the while, Loki's mind is still. _My opportunity will come. Patience._

And father and son are silent in the flickering light of the stars above.

**How do you like? *Cocks head and grins hopefully* I hope Loki doesn't come across as too OOC. I sort of wanted to see more of his *cough* sensitive character in Avengers, so this fic sort of wrote itself this way. And I KNOW Odin is probably extremely OOC, but, well, I only had limited information from watching Thor. I'm probably going to have one or two more chapters after this. Review please – thank you!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow. Just…wow. I am utterly and completely flummoxed by the reception of the first chapter of this fic. I don't know – maybe to some writers, this isn't a big response at all, but to a somewhat inexperienced writer, this is the best encouragement anyone can give. So thank you, to all of you. *Gigantic group hug* OH AND IMPORTANT – I forgot Loki's mother existed, she didn't even appear for very long in Thor, and she was *rather* forgettable. So for all intents and purposes, she is on a diplomatic trip or something on the other face of the planet. Thank you.**

**Reviews:**

**StephREDSniper: Thank you so much! First review ever, I was completely overexcited when I saw it :)**

**Lokisdashiz: Loki fangirl high five :D**

**Silverspeare: Thanks for the good advice, I followed it – tell me whether it's sufficient after you read this chappie!**

**Komi V: Thanks for the reassurance! Seriously scared of OOC-ness.**

**Ynath Esrith: Yep, Loki does get punished, albeit rather lightly relative to the magnitude of his mistakes. And about a "certain Titan"…well, I feel a bit iffy approaching such a huge character when I have limited information concerning him. As you could probably tell from my A/N notes last chapter, I'm strictly movie-verse, complemented with a bit of frantic internet research if necessary. Better stick with the less well-known, safer "The Other".**

**ElizaAcheron: Thanks, hope you like this chapter.**

**Thank you, all of you who favourited and alerted. I couldn't mention you all, but I LOVE YOU GUYS. **

**Oh, and I don't own the Avengers (if I did, there would be a LOT more Loki in it). So onward with the chapter (written while listening to the OST on Youtube)!**

Darkness is shrouded in the depths of the night. A soundless wind filters through Loki's fingers, and he lifts his eyes to a strange sight. A black moon rises on a white plain smooth as glass, and he sees his own terrified face reflected on the shadows before him. He is dressed in a dark coat, and he starts in surprise as he sees the haunted look that edges his reflection.

_This is but a dream_, Loki realizes, turning full circle, his leather shoes tapping lightly on the white ground. Somehow or another, this information does not reassure him in the slightest.

The air feels wrong to the touch, and Loki senses something stir in the distance. Then – no, in the distance no longer – there is the sound of harsh breathing next to his ear. Loki recoils, throwing himself to the side and rolling up on one knee, hands at the ready to shield himself from whatever may come.

But the _thing_ is gone, and all is still save the beating of his heart. He releases a breath in relief. _Why, Loki, nothing can harm you in a mere dream_, he thinks to himself soothingly, rising to his feet just as a rasping voice whispers, "Many things can harm your mind in a dream, _boy_."

Loki whips his head around, black hair flying, searching in vain for the source of the sound. He sinks into defensive stance, eyes scanning the endless plain. The voice seems to come from all directions, lancing from the arcing sky above him.

Loki attempts to swallow, but his throat is dry. "Show yourself," he gasps, "SHOW YOURSELF!" A desperate note enters his cry.

A second of silence. Then with a flicker, the white ground turns black like the curved moon, plunging him into complete darkness. _A dream, a dream, a dream_, Loki repeats to himself, clinging to the thought as a small child clings to his father.

A leering, blood red mouth slides across his vision, and the same voice, now cajoling and insulting, breathes, "You think you know what _pain_ is?" And Loki's mind fills with an exquisite agony, born of fear, shame, and premonition.

Then his eyes open to the faint orange glow of the Asgardian sunrise, and he is shaking uncontrollably. His heart hammers frantically, but search his mind as he might, Loki cannot remember what caused the terror in his soul. The dream has slipped out of his mind entirely.

_It must have been a nightmare._

He is glad – _nothing can harm you in a mere nightmare._

But nevertheless, his eyes remain open and staring, willing the sky to brighten and drive away the shadows surrounding him.

(:~:)

The sky dances from darkness to light, and night fades into forgotten memory.

(:~:)

In a citadel corner shaded with shafts of soft golden sunlight, Loki sighs deeply. This is partly because of boredom, partly due to frustration, but overwhelmingly because of the elegant bracelet affixed upon his wrist.

Loki holds it up to the light, almost admiring how the luminence gleams off the delicate band of silver with filigreed gold.

Rather a pretty thing, really, and it weighs almost nothing.

It would be a harmless little trinket, except that it holds the energy equivalent to a glancing strike of Mjolnir-induced lightning, courtesy of _dear_ brother Thor.

And it has been all but welded shut on Loki's wrist.

He shuts his eyes and tilts his head back against the wall. According to Odin, it was merely "precautionary" and would not be activated unless he did the "imprudent" thing and decided to "venture" outside of the citadel grounds in any way. Hurrah.

As Loki remembers, it was the strangest conversation ever held while he ate at Odin's table for daymeal. With the notable exception of any communication whatsoever between Thor and his brother, the conversation ran, in simplified wording, somewhat like this: Good morning father, good morning son, did you rest well, agreeably so, and then – I'm going to strap an extremely painful electrocuting device that is charged with an exceptional amount of electrical voltage on your arm. Oh, and by the way, you're grounded. Sorry.

To say the atmosphere in the dining room became frosty after that is an admirable understatement.

Now, Loki snarls to himself in frustration, and shifts his position slightly. His green and leather coat slides over a new set of throwing daggers, their sharp edges gleaming with deadly potential. He considers them for a second. Well, at least he had gained _permission_ to carry a select few – he hasn't lived a single day of his life past the age of six without some form of weaponry strapped to his side. _It could have turned out far worse_, thought Loki in self-consolation. His mind settles once more into the flat plane of tedium, trying to ignore the darkness that had crept around the edges of his thoughts since early that morning.

A faintest wisp of sound behind him – no, not even noise, more of a _disturbance_ in the air – and Loki's eyes snap open to reveal brilliantly green irises.

A thin-bladed dagger appears between his elegant fingers, and it tilts at a light angle, diverting the sharp point of the descending sword to pass above his right shoulder with a pure, ringing metallic note. For an instant, Loki's amused half grin can be seen reflected in the shining surface of the rapier, then a second dagger materializes in his left hand, trapping the sword tip securely. He shifts his weight gracefully, cloak flying in an arc behind him, pivots to lever the blade upwards, and Loki's eyes flit to meet Fandral's cross-eyed expression as he looks down the point of his own sword, barely an inch from his nose.

Loki holds the position a moment longer, crouched tense and low, Fandral almost tipping backwards on his heels in an attempt to avoid the sword clipped between the two daggers. Volstagg, Hogun and Sif are choking back laughter. "Dude," Fandral breathes, "That was cool. Where did you learn to do _that_?"

Then with a flick of his wrists, Loki sheathes the daggers in his sleeves. The sword clatters on the marbled floor, echoing up and down the corridor. "Obviously not from _you_," comes the mildly mocking reply.

Fandral laughs wholeheartedly and engulfs Loki in a hug that almost bowls him over. "It's great to see you!" Fandral says, "Last we heard, you were stuck somewhere in Midgard!"

Loki's breath is cut off temporarily by the crushing force of Volstagg's hug, which lifts him off his feet. "Hey," Loki gasps, "battle bruises, man!" He winces at the memory of his _educational_ confrontation with the Hulk. "Good to see you back safe," booms Volstagg. When he is set back down carefully, he strides forward to clasp Hogun's arm. "Nice to see that your facial muscles are in fact capable of forming a smile, Hogun," Loki comments slyly, though he can see the joy clearly present in his friend's eyes.

Loki finally turns to the lady Sif, whose head is tilted at a proud angle, the only sign of her happiness in the slight uplifting of a corner of her mouth. Loki smiles his most charming smile, and sweeps his coat behind him in a smooth motion, bending over her proffered hand with a overtly respectful air. "How do you do, my dear lady Sif, on this fine morning?" his cultured voice intones.

"I, have had enough of your pranks, boys," Sif replies, eyes sparkling. Then she too laughs and pulls Loki into a gentle hug.

When they break apart, Loki finds himself surprisingly glad of their company. They had of course been part of all that he had taught himself to despise in recent times, but he had not realised before the true extent of his self-imposed solitude. _It is good to have _some_ friends,_ Loki smiles to himself. He feels the nugget of worry in the back of his thoughts recede.

Fandral yawns widely, lounges against the wall, and drawls conversationally, "So, Loki, has life been kind to your delicate soul lately?" The serious look in his eyes belies his true concern for his friend. "Kind?" Loki questions, clasping his hands behind him. "What a strange choice of words! No, it has not been _kind_," he tilts his head unconsciously towards the general direction of his father's chambers, "but I shall survive even so." A bitter note has entered his voice.

Hogun takes a half-step forward, and looks Loki straight in the eye. Loki resists the urge to look away from the steel-lined gaze. "We must all survive the consequences of our actions," Hogun says softly, "and I myself am glad that the costs come lightly this time round."

The underlying pointed comment does not escape Loki's notice, and his green eyes harden momentarily.

An instant of awkwardness permeates the air, silence settling like a heavy mantle.

And then Voltstagg belches loudly, covering his mouth immediately afterwards with both of his hands, embarrassed at having broken the hush. "Sorry," he whispers to the corridor at large. Fandral's hair is now sticking up like a hedgehog, blown backwards by the force of Voltstagg's burp.

Then the group explodes with laughter, Sif giggling uncontrollably, unlike her usual self, Hogun chuckling with amusement, Fandral snickering partly because of shock, and Loki laughs his clear, ever so slightly mocking laugh, running a hand through his sable hair. Even Voltstagg begins to grin.

Sif is the first one to gain a modicum of control over herself, and says to Loki, "Anyway, we were wondering whether you would like to join us on our hunt. It has been a long while since we all hunted together." Volstagg cuts in, "And we've agreed that if I down an entire boar, I get to eat the entire roast." His eyes turn dreamy at the thought.

Loki narrows his eyes in suspicion. "Was this, by any chance, Thor's idea?" he folds his arms and tilts his head forward, seeming to examine the leather tips of his boots.

Sif is quick to reassure him, "No, Thor doesn't know anything about this. We just wanted to come and see you."

The sardonic smile once again adorns Loki's lips as he gestures with a slender finger at the bracelet on his wrist, "I, unfortunately, cannot come. This is to blame."

"Huh?" Voltstagg queries, voicing his confusion. Fandral is more direct, tossing his blonde hair out of his eyes and saying, "Dude. You can't go hunting with us because you're scared of scratching the pretty gift your _daddy_ gave you?" He mistakes the venomous glare from Loki as offense at the jibe to his father, and quickly amends, "No offense, of course."

"If only it was a pretty gift and no more," Loki says softly. He explains with as few words as possible the nature of the bracelet. His friend's reactions are immediate, overlapping exclamations drowning out individual voices. "That's tough, man," Volstagg comments. Loki looks at them evenly, as if daring them to express pity. The friends however know by now that to do so would be the ultimate insult to Loki's pride, and Sif refrains from speaking lest her sympathy be known.

Then Loki smiles, though it does not quite reach his eyes, and forces the words out, "Go. Have your fun. I will meet you when you return."

His friends tarry a moment longer, then leave, their footsteps too soft to be heard.

And Loki is left standing alone and silent in the slanted light, an odd gleam of moisture in his indifferent eyes. The darkness in his mind flares sharply.

(:~:)

Silhouetted against the blackness of the darkened room, the faint, pulsing blue of the Casket casts an iridescent light on Odin's grave face. His hands are held a hair's breadth from the surface as it flashes a deeper hue than ever before. Odin's long cloak lies heavy on his shoulders, and his brow creases with worry. He raises his head, and pronounces clearly, "Why, silently sneaking up to your father, Thor? Such a thing I would have expected Loki to do."

Thor clears his throat, and one hand rubs the handle of Mjolnir unconsciously. "Father. It must have occurred to you that Loki needs some form of –" he searches for the correct word, "– supervision – for the present time. I worry for his wellbeing. He has not quite come to terms with himself. I fear that he will do something rash."

"What are you suggesting, my son?" Odin says quietly, not turning his head.

"I can assign a company of men to watch over him. They will follow and stay unseen," Thor walks slowly towards his father, stopping a few paces behind him.

Odin turns with a rustle of his cloak, and strides to where Thor stands. "Look at me, Thor," he says. He searches the depths of Thor's clear blue eyes, and finds no menace nor any ill will towards Loki harboured there. He smiles. "Why, you expect to be successful in tracking your _brother_ of all people? I know for a fact that he will hear your footfalls at thrice the distance that you require to hear _his_, and he has an uncanny ability to glide like a silent shadow over any terrain."

Thor opens his mouth to counter, but Odin cuts in, "And if you tell your men to keep their distance to avoid detection, Loki will simply meld into the trees and be lost to any tracker."

A touch of pride enters Thor's expression. "Yes. I know full well Loki's abilities. He is uniquely gifted in that regard. But to protect him, for his own sake, I will attempt this nonetheless."

Odin is silent for a moment, and then nods once. Thor performs a short bow, and turns to leave the chamber, armor gleaming in the firelight.

(:~:)

There is an understated calm between the emerald trees of the citadel gardens, where the gently whispering leaves shade the winding path dappled with sunlight. A young man with eyes brighter green than the branches above wanders down the paved stone path, aimlessness in his step and emptiness in his heart.

Loki stretches out his fingers to the warmth of the sunlight, mind travelling back to a time when laughter ran like running water in and through the trees. A slightly wistful look appears on his features. He turns his face towards the sun. He had forgotten the touch of Asgard's sun in his prolonged exile. He did not think he would miss it as much as he did.

Although he is standing so still he seems to fade into the scenery, his thoughts are cast out before and behind, searching and examining all that is around him. Loki finds this has a restful effect. But by and by, a note of disquiet enters his mind. Some hundred strides behind him, a small volume of space registers as blank nothingness. He contemplates this for a little while. There are two possible explanations. One is that he is simply out of practice. The other is that there is an exceptionally well-shielded mind that is perfectly aware of Loki's current activities.

The thought does not please him.

With a flowing movement, Loki turns and paces off the path and into the trees, willing his cloak to shimmer in the same pattern as the light-drenched leaves. His footsteps make no discernible sound, and he not so much walks as glides through the woods before him.

(:~:)

A hundred paces behind him, a professional-grade Asgardian tracker blinks once, mystified, as Loki seems to disappear before his concentrated gaze. One moment, Loki can be clearly seen in the glade, and the next, he is gone. The tracker's eyes flick across the place where he last saw the prince, and failing to find even a single mark in the grass to show his heading, he curses vehemently under his breath, and throws himself in the direction of the clearing. Images of a furious Thor appear in his mind, and the tracker breaks out in cold sweat.

(:~:)

Loki slows his steps and halts near a small grove of trees. A quiet moment is suffice for him to know that whatever it was on his trail is now gone. He is surprised at his own fear – it is strange for him to be so easily apprehensive – but then again, he has been unsettled all morning. Perhaps he did not sleep as well as he thought after all.

A rustling in the bushes.

He tenses sharply, hand reaching for a dagger, but ends up resting his fingers on the pair of long knives at his belt.

"Show yourself!" Loki says, keeping the tremble out of his voice with extreme difficulty. A strange sense of familiarity overwhelms him.

The sound intensifies, resembling the noise a snake makes as it slides through dry underbrush.

And then a leather-skin ball explodes out of the bush and whams Loki squarely in the face, knocking him backwards before the long knives are even halfway out of their sheaths. He lands on his back with a muffled _oomph_, a conveniently placed rock jabbing him right in the spine. A host of multicoloured sparks seems to blossom over his vision, and he half groans, half squeaks in pain, gasping for air.

When the pain has faded into a dull throb, Loki cracks open an eyelid and sees a pair of innocent blue eyes looking down at him. "Did I hurt you, sir?" the little boy of no more than five or six asks quickly. Loki groans again and forces himself up into a sitting position, one embroidered sleeve dripping mud. The little boy squeals in surprise at this sudden motion and jumps back a pace, stumbling over his football.

Loki turns his head to the boy, about to give him a good earful, but then sees that he is wringing his tiny hands in worry. He gives him an appraising look. _Clothes of reasonable finery, small family signet ring, very clean – belongs to a family of nobility._ The boy quails under his severe gaze. "I'm ve-very sorry, mister," he stutters. Loki starts, for he did not realize that he was alarming the child. A sigh. "What is your name, child?" he straightens to his full height as he speaks, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the state of his sleeve.

"Aidan," comes the mouse-like reply.

"And where, young Aidan, is your mother?"

Aidan points in the general direction of the bush. Loki sighs again. "You have not caused much harm this time round, little man, but you shall take care in the future not to repeat this." It is an order, not a piece of advice, and Aidan shrinks in response. Loki softens his expression a fraction, and bends down so his face is level with the boy's. Then he notices that Aidan is bleeding from the temple – not much, but a sizeable cut for a little boy nonetheless.

"Here," he says softly, pulling Aidan towards him, and carefully examines the cut. "You have a battle wound, little fellow," he smiles. There is something in the boy's natural fear of adults that reminds him of himself when younger, harrowed in from all sides by a web of rules and conduct. _What befits a prince._

The little boy's eyes widen. "A battle wound? But mommy says that I'm not old enough to have one yet. She always tells me that if I be good and listen well, one day I'll be a great warrior."

Loki tilts his head slightly, and murmurs half to himself, "There are many kinds of battle wounds. Some you can gain at a young age indeed." Then he draws on the magic that simmers within him, and places a gentle hand over Aidan's brow and releases a fluid stream of power. Aidan blinks in astonishment. "What did you do, sir?" he asks. Loki lifts his hand, and smooth skin covers what was originally the deep cut.

"Making it so mommy doesn't get angry at you for hurting yourself," Loki leans forward, whispering conspiringly. "Thanks," Aidan smiles for the first time, showing two missing front teeth.

Loki then regards his muddy sleeve, waves his hand gracefully, and the dirt drips off into a pool on the grass.

Aidan looks at this with bright eyes, curious. Then something sparks in his mind and he squeaks excitedly, "You're – you're LOKI! You're the prince!" His eyes grow round as he jumps up and down in joy.

"Why, you are more intelligent than you seem, Aidan." Loki says. He is suddenly glad that somebody is happy at meeting him for the first time, instead of cowering and stumbling in the opposite direction. "So, what do you know about me?" he asks.

"I know all the stories, especially the ones about Jotenheim, and-" he grows suddenly quiet, "Mommy says you're evil." A shadow passes over Loki's face. But then Aidan brightens again, and exclaims, "Your fighting moves are so cool! Second only to your brother Thor!" Something dangerous leaps in Loki's eyes, and his hands clench suddenly. The boy fails to notice, and gasps, running forward to grasp at Loki's coat. "Can you get me Thor's autograph? Please, please? My friends will be sooooo jealous!"

Then he sees Loki's expression, and backs away. He begins to wring his hands again. When Loki speaks, there is something different in his voice. "You really want my brother's autograph?" he queries, stepping forwards. "I-I," Aidan stutters. "Mommy!" he cries out.

"Aidan, where did you run off to?" comes the answering call, as a petite woman steps out from the trees. Then her gaze falls on Loki. Her face shows confusion for a moment, then she takes in his sharp green eyes and clothing, and fear overwhelms her. "My lord!" she says quickly, "I beg your forgiveness, I did not know you were here." Her eyes turn to the boy, anxiety lacing her speech, "Come, Aidan." "Did he bother you, my lord?" she asks Loki. But when he opens his mouth to speak, she apologises fervently and takes Aidan by the hand, forcibly dragging him away from the prince, bowing all the while. Only then does Loki find that his hand is resting on the grip of his long knives. "It's fine, we were just talking," he tries to reassure her. But she is already almost running away from him. Aidan's bright blue eyes are confused as he follows his mother. They vanish into the undergrowth, leaving the leather ball on the ground.

And once again Loki is left standing alone. _They all hate me. The _children_ are taught to hate me. _Even though he has gained what he was trying to achieve since long ago – for others to fear his power – Loki discovers himself strangely melancholy.

With a flick of his cloak, Loki turns and begins to climb a tall oak, swinging lightly from branch to branch until he finally settles in the gently swaying breeze, listening to the creak of the trees and seeing Asgard laid out before his eyes, streets humming with life. Some distance away, he sees Aidan and his mother meld into the crowd, the woman still gripping her son's wrist tightly.

_Is this what I wanted? Children running away in terror when they realize who I am?_ The familiar spike of jealousy leaps in his mind when he sees in his mind's eye the respectful glances Thor gains from every Asgardian he meets. Loki now is a figure of fear. But Thor holds respect and reverence, something his _little_ _brother _will never hope to achieve. The leaves shift in the wind, and Loki adjusts his balance easily.

To the east, the birdsong stops suddenly.

Loki turns his head slightly, eyes scanning the greenery rapidly. _Perhaps_ _it was the presence I felt earlier._ But there is something different about this silence. It is not merely an absence of something – it feels cold, somehow, and ominous.

A flash of a black cloak, for such a quick instant that even a trained hunter would not have seen it. But Loki is no normal hunter. A faint scent hangs in the air. _No. It cannot be._ He stands fully upright, branch creaking under his weight, and focuses all his senses at the spot where the discrepancy appeared. Time seems to slow, and everything else, his heartbeat, the distant sound of the city streets, fades into the background.

A second later, a cowled figure can be seen creeping through two trees.

_The Other._

Loki spares no time for coherent thought, flinging himself off the end of the branch. For a moment, the world rushes past him, and the heavens tilt above his head, then he lands with barely any noise on a thin branch in the next tree. Without pausing, he continues running, as if the paltry bough underneath him was a straight, easy path, and leaps for the next oak. This time, he draws two daggers in midair, burying them into the trunk on impact and pushing off the rough bark with a foot, changing direction without truly landing on a flat surface. All the while, his eyes dart from left to right, catching a glimpse of a black coat here, a pale fingered hand there. Loki desperately tries to calm the panic rising in his throat, for only now does he remember the Other's macabre parting promise.

_He will find you._

He nearly slips on the following branch. _I must not let him out of my sight._ Snarling through clenched teeth, Loki continues forward, seeming to almost fly through the air.

The Other is travelling very fast on foot, seeming to shift from one patch of shadows to the next. _The outer wall of the citadel grounds._ As the wall looms before Loki, he drives his feet into the final tree, rips his daggers out of the bark – a splinter narrowly missing his eye – and uses his magic to give him an extra burst of power, flipping gracefully through open space, the stones of the nearest watchtower looming. In a corner of his vision, he spies a shadow pass through the Eastern Gate of the citadel as if the wrought-iron door is but insubstantial mist.

So distracted is Loki by the appearance of The Other, he forgets something of grave importance. As he prepares for his landing on one of the stone watchtowers, he notices how the bracelet on his wrist glows faintly orange. Too late, his memory reminds him, and as he rolls to dissipate the impact, he extends both his hands to stop himself from tipping over the edge of the high wall.

The wrist with the bracelet is thrust out into open space, _outside_ of the citadel gardens. A guard on watch levels his spear at his face, but Loki could care less about that right now.

The gold engravings on the bracelet glow a sharp red, and the metal constricts so as to maximize contact with his skin.

Loki, gasping from exertion, stares at it. A spark.

He has time to think, _Oh bother_,before the pain hits him_._

(:~:)

Thor is striding down a corridor, footsteps sure, when a figure wearing a cloth tied to the lower half of his face and cut-off gloves steps right into his path from a shaded alcove. Thor almost curses as he nearly bowls over the man, who raises his hands in a placating gesture.

"Tracker Damian has a report, I assume?" Thor asks. The second-in-command to Damian shows an unprecedented amount of stress, shifting from foot to foot.

"My lord, Master Damian has informed me through thought communication that Prince Loki has just set off the device," he says. "WHAT?" Thor shouts, "Wasn't Damian supposed to keep Loki at a safe distance from boundary line?"

"Uh," the man says uncertainly, "I was told it was an accident."

"Tell me," Thor growls through gritted teeth, "how a device like that can be set off _unintentionally_? I am going to kill him!" He does not specify whether it is Loki or Damian whose life is about to come to an extremely violent and messy end.

The man twitches his fingers in a weak I-don't-know-please-don't-ask-me sort of way.

"Where-" Thor begins, but the man is already pointing east.

Mjolnir whirs at a frantic speed, and with a muffled impact, Thor is already gone.

The man leans against a wall and gasps a sigh of relief. He would _not_ want to be in Damian's shoes right now. Nor Loki's.

(:~:)

The castle guard hates his luck for being the specific soldier posted to that specific spot on the citadel outer wall at that specific time on that specific day. Yes, he was dozing a little on the job, and yes, he was drooling just slightly in his sleep on the sill of the watchtower, but he in _no_ way deserved to be punished by the sudden arrival of the second oldest prince.

Loki had landed with an understated _thud_ on the stretch of wall beside him, seeming to be chasing something on ground level, and at first the guard had scrambled to attention, thinking that this was one of the sudden spot checks that he had heard about. But a second later, Loki still had his back to him, and had curled into a tight ball of green cloth and leather, as if expecting some hidden force to come crashing down upon him. Startled, the guard (whose name was, unfortunately, Larry) had leveled his spear at Loki's head, thinking that the prince was up to no good again.

A moment after _that_, Loki arches his back and screams once, so loudly that the guard recoils to avoid spearing his head. The smell of ozone tinges the air, and Loki claws desperately at a shiny band on his wrist, a bracelet that is sparking electricity in dangerous arcs.

"Um, my lord?" Larry ventures. There is no response, except that Loki begins to shake so hard that Larry thinks it is something akin to a seizure. Larry is really scared now, and he drops his spear in distress. "Help!" he yells in a pathetic voice, hoping for someone, anyone, to hear. This time he is rewarded by the arrival of the crown prince, who lands with a crash next to him, a lot less gracefully than his brother did. Larry whimpers. He literally cannot handle the stress.

(:~:)

Loki is in a world of indescribable agony, waves of pain seeming to originate from his wrist and burning uncontrollably through him. He loses control enough to scream once – just once – and then clamps his jaw shut and is determined to ride the pain through to the end. Someone behind him says something blurred and echoey. But then the shaking starts, and stars explode before his eyes every time his head whacks against the cold stone floor entirely out of his own volition.

Some withdrawn, shut off part of him registers that it really shouldn't be hurting this much, because Thor had specified a _glancing_ strike of Mjolnir.

Then heavy steps pace around his head, and even though he is still jerking involuntarily, he knows his brother has arrived.

"I – hate – you," he gasps between breaths, groaning when another wave of pain hits.

Thor frowns in worry. "It's not supposed to hurt you this much. What in the name of good reason is happening…" he murmurs.

Loki feels like he is about to bite his own tongue off, so jams a leather-cuffed sleeve into his mouth. His eyes, for the first time, are pleading.

Thor sees this, and, seeming to awake from a dream, realises just how much pain he is in. He quickly takes Mjolnir and attempts to guide the electricity away from his brother, but a miniature force field blossoms every time it draws near Loki's wrist.

"My – magic – is – reacting –" Loki chokes. Thor's blue eyes turn steely, and he says firmly, "Then let it grow. Burn the electricity out. We cannot rip you away from your magic, but your magic can rip you from Mjolnir's power."

"Stay – away," is the faint response. Thor quickly retreats to stand next to the petrified guard.

Loki closes his eyes, and pours every modicum of hatred, fear, and pain he has ever felt since his childhood into a single strike of magic, sending it rushing down his arm and into his wrist. A white light glows behind his eyelids. Then all is still, and black.

An indeterminable amount of time passes, and then Loki opens his eyes to see Thor trembling with fear, calling his name repeatedly. He narrows his eyes in confusion. When is _Thor_ ever afraid? _He's too stupid to feel fear even when necessary._ Then, somehow, he knows that Thor is fearful for him, and his confusion intensifies. He attempts to smother it with anger.

"What were you thinking?" Loki demands. Thor jerks with shock at how steady Loki's voice is, considering what he has just gone through. Loki continues, "Were you actually attempting to kill me? Too scared to murder me outright and so deciding to let it be an _accident_?" He does not sound like himself. The fact that he does not phrase his words as normal belies how shaken he feels.

"Are – how are you?" Thor asks earnestly.

"Fine." Loki says shortly. But then he realises he _is_ fine, for his magic simmers brightly within him, stronger than he has ever known it. He regards one of his hands strangely, holding it up to the light. He feels so…light. Refusing Thor's proffered hand, he stands, smoking bracelet tumbling to the ground.

(:~:)

Night again.

The Other watches as Damian is faced with the full force of Thor's anger. His hooded head tilts at the scene before him. So Loki is watched. This could be…advantageous. If there were some way of restraining Loki's magic so that he could not use it in battle, killing the annoying child would become much easier.

Interesting.

One more shadow melds into the night.

**Oh my goodness. I'm about to keel over from exhaustion. This chapter was way longer than I expected. Anyway, did you guys like it? I hope you did. I suppose the end doesn't really count as a cliffie, does it? I did **_**something**_** to Loki's magic – that little bit of description is very important. See you guys in eight or nine days, I will probably update by then. Review please! I need the encouragement :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for the encouragment, everybody. I had a serious case of writer's depression this week until my beta Eirian Erisdar basically punched it out of me (yes, she's nice like that), and you guys helped too :) Okay, IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: The reviews persuaded me that you guys didn't really know what "The Other" was. Contrary to popular belief, you guys have **_**all **_**met him before! You know in the movie, the guy who acts as the middleman between SPOILER! Thanos and Loki? Pale white skin, hooded, and an excess of fingers? THAT's "The Other". Okay. All cleared up. **

**Reviews:**

**And I'm all out of bubblegum: Great screen name, by the way, and this is an extra big thank you. You complimented my writing, with is the best thing any writer would wish for, and it really motivated me to write. **

**Komi V: Thanks so much for liking Aidan! I don't know, I always feel that OCs are hard to get right. **

**ElizaAcheron: Great magic theories…wouldn't tell you at the moment whether any are correct. You'll find out. Oh, and Loki's mind is strange – I think he chooses not to think about what he's done.**

**Moonbeam: The reason Loki was OOC in that bit (of which I was very aware of) was that if he basically went through the entire chapter sulking moodily, this fic would turn out notoriously depressing. For the same reason, "Larry" was for comic relief. You know how Hiddles said in one interview, "All that positive energy got me nowhere (in this character)?" Yeah. Too much in-character Loki, especially how he was in the Avengers compared to how he was in Thor, is just too depressing.**

**talk-ape: Thanks for the short, but sweet review. Nice screen name, by the way, made me laugh :)**

**OnAMission: Hey, hope you like this chappie! You really helped me out of a writing low with your reviews. I am extremely indebted to you :) I hope you find this chapter satisfactory. Thank you again! *hugs***

**Ynath Esrith: You were the only one who knew who "The Other" was! I was happy to find out that I didn't mess up my research or something and use the wrong name :D You're absolutely right, Loki's brother and daddy problems are not going to be helpful. Thanks for reviewing!**

**And to all those who alerted or favourited this story, thank you! **

**Oh, I don't own the Avengers, though any random OCs are mine. Onwards with the chappie! (And sorry for the overlong author's note, I had to thank you all properly)**

A fair amount of time after midnight, Larry yawns to himself as he wanders through the citadel hallway. His shadow, cast by the flickering torches, swells and diminishes as he walks, as if another person travels by his side, a half step behind. It is not his watch – but he was told after the incident on the outer wall that afternoon to report to the master guard.

After that honestly alarming episode involving both princes, Larry is considering resigning from his post. Neither his nerves, his heart, or, to be frank, his intelligence is quite up to the job anymore. Mind lost in thought, he accidentally stubs his toe on a piece of metal. _Ow Ow Ow Ow Ouch…_ he holds on to the afflicted toe, hopping around in undignified circles (but then again, when is Larry _ever_ dignified?) _My toe's fallen off, I bet it has._ Sulking mightily, Larry turns to examine the offending piece of metal, lying in the middle of the otherwise empty corridor.

Oh. A rusted axehead. _Looks like it belongs to an old suit of armour._ Larry scratches his head, looking up and down the silent hallway. _How did it get here, of all places?_ Reaching forward, he touches the tip of one fingernail to the metal, and promptly emits a high-pitched shriek as a fair amount of electricity leaps onto his finger, burning the tip. The axehead shivers and clatters in brief blue flash of light. Larry sticks his finger into his mouth, gives the axehead a vehement kick, and turns to go, just as an insignificant sound in an adjacent corridor causes his head to snap up.

With a bravado born of false pride or stupidity, possibly both, Larry straightens his back and strides in the direction of the noise. Barely thirty paces later, a faint trembling can be felt up the soles of his boots. Up ahead, flashes of otherworldly blue light throw elongated, shaking shadows up the walls, and Larry _sees – _

Lightning. A corridor dancing with streaks of lightning.

The electricity catches and tears at the torch brackets, ripping them out of the wall and throwing them with dangerous velocity in every direction. Burn marks line the floor, and the air crackles with unrestrained energy.

Larry whimpers, and turns to run, but then something within him snaps back at him – _Be brave, for once in your life_. Shaking with fear, he places his sword on the ground, and steps carefully over it towards the source of the energy, a closed, glided door under which a bar of burning blue light gleams unrelentingly.

It takes him a moment to recognize whom this particular room belongs to. The younger prince. Loki.

"My lord?" Larry endeavours.

Silence, save for the crackling lightning.

_Be brave, be brave, be brave_ –and Larry reaches out a hand and pushes open the door.

His eyes widen.

"Gods above," he whispers. Then he turns on his heel and tears away through the halls, gasping, "Sire! Sire!"

{|~|}

Thor is awakened from the deepest of sleeps by a strange rattling by his bedside, and is surprised to find his room pulsing with light – light emanating in a soft silver-blue glow from Mjolnir. The hammer dances as if it has a mind of its own, tumbling and flipping of its own accord. Groaning with tiredness, Thor extends a hand and tries to quell Mjolnir's movement, but to no end, for it only intensifies.

Thor stares at this strange phenomenon for a second, brain beginning to shrug off drowsiness and contemplate the implications of this.

He curses quietly to himself and gets dressed, careful to give Mjolnir a wide berth. _I should take this matter to Father_.

BANG. His head whips around to the direction of the door. "Who calls at such a late hour?" he says, drawing himself up to his full height.

A breathless, frantic voice yells, "My lord! Prince Loki…he's…you must come now, my lord!"

_Loki._ Grabbing the handle of Mjolnir, Thor yanks open the door and strides out of his room, registering the shaking guard before him.

"What is amiss regarding my brother?" Thor asks, as the hammer begins to glow a deeper blue.

The guard seems surprised at such an immediate response to his cry, and hesitates for an infuriatingly long moment.

"Quickly, man!" thunders Thor, worry lining his features, shoulders tense.

"There is light…lightning in his room, and blue light like so," Larry answers, gesturing at Mjolnir.

Thor sets off almost at a run, even as Mjolnir begins to shake even more violently in his hand. _Loki and Mjolnir…_

{|~|}

Odin hastens toward his younger son's lodging, flanked by two fully armed citadel guards who are struggling to match his pace. Two corridors from his destination, he runs into Thor, who greets his father with a terse nod. Neither speaks, for once glance is suffice to tell that both understand the situation.

The hand that is gripping his staff has turned white, and Odin's step betrays none of his inner concern. The small party stops near Loki's door, and Mjolnir squeaks and whirs, nearly tumbling out of Thor's hand. Odin takes in the flashing lighting with one all-encompassing look, and with his metal staff still in his hand, strides into Loki's room. Somehow the electricity does not think to strike him. Thor follows, after a moment of unsure pause.

As the mottled blue casts light and shadow over Odin's face, his eyes search for his son in the dark recesses of the room. He starts with surprise.

_Why, he's still asleep._

Loki lies still and unmoving, electricity arcing in threatening streaks all over him, building in power and then throwing themselves off his skin at the nearest metal target. Without the lightning, it would seem like he was sleeping peacefully, except that his expression belies some eerie fear hidden in the blackness of his consciousness.

"He's dreaming," Odin says, "dreaming of something terrible indeed." _What is this sorcery?_ He shakes his head to clear it, and without a second thought, puts out a hand to shake Loki awake by the shoulder. The humming of understated power intensifies sharply.

A shout from behind, "Father! Are you sure this is wise?" Thor's eyes are narrowed against the glowing nimbus of light surrounding his brother, and his hair is windswept back away from his face. One arm rests on the doorframe for support. The citadel guards have retreated to a safe distance.

Odin's hand stops a hairsbreadth from the still form of his son. He sees the logic in Thor's words, and nods his agreement. Instead, he kneels down quietly next to his son's bedside, cloak spreading around his bent figure, and takes Loki's hand in his. "Loki," he calls quietly. No response. The whirring electricity swirls into a bright funnel lining the walls of the room, shutting off the doorway. He tries again, "Loki, awake, the monsters are but in your mind. Open your eyes, and they will be gone."

This time Loki stirs slightly, and his mouth forms one word. _Father._ Odin bends closer to his son's agonized face, and says, "I am here, and I promise that no harm will come to you. Awake, my son!"

Loki's eyelids are scrunched tightly shut, and he shakes his head unknowingly, like a little child unwilling to answer his father's call. "You will hurt yourself if you struggle further. Let it go, whatever it is you fight against." By now, Odin has taken both of Loki's hands in his own, and Thor stands by his father, gripping Mjolnir tightly.

The whirling maelstrom of light reaches its peak – and Loki opens his eyes wide, gasping a sudden breath. And with that breath, the lightning seems to stop motionless, as if time no longer flows and all is silence. Then Loki exhales, and the light retracts violently in a glowing sphere, whipping through Odin and Thor to form an intensely bright singularity above him. The air pressure changes with a sudden _pop_, and the sphere zooms back into Loki's chest, causing him to cough and choke. His breathing is harsh and ragged in the sudden darkness.

"What…what happened?" Loki asks to no one in particular, face pale and white. "Father? Thor? Why are you here?" He realises that his father is peering anxiously at him, and he withdraws his hands from his grasp.

"You do not remember?" Odin asks in quiet wonderment. Loki shakes his head, and pushes himself into a sitting position. Only then does he take in the utter devastation that used to be his room – burn marks on the ceiling, wardrobe smoking, and bits of charred metal flung in all directions. "I-I was dreaming about something – I know not what – and then I opened my eyes to see you here," Loki says. His expression hardens, and a familiar note of suspicion enters his voice.

Thor speaks for the first time, "Somehow, you were…sparking electricity that was linked to Mjolnir." Loki snaps up his head to regard his brother with a narrowed gaze. A word forms on his lips, but Thor answers it before he speaks. "I have no inkling of why, or more importantly, _how_."

Father and sons stare at each other for a heavy moment. Then Loki attempts to stand, only to stumble on the first step and having to submit to being helped up by Thor, of all people. Odin says softly, "The electricity was obviously feeding off your own energy. You need to rest."

Loki, who is reacting to being supported by his brother by a strange mixture of disgust and resignation, snorts sarcastically. "Go to sleep? And repeat _this_?" He gestures halfheartedly at his surroundings, then lets his arm drop as if even that small motion had exhausted him. Thor takes more of his weight.

Odin has to concede that he has a point.

{|~|}

Later.

Loki sits with his knees drawn up to his chin, watching his blurred reflection in the large, oval table in the main dining hall. He is still in the clothes that he slept in, but a voluminous green cloak is draped over his shoulders for warmth. The silky edges of the cloak swing in midair, nearly touching the floor. In his hands is a cup of hot tea procured for him by the nice kitchen master who still had a soft spot for him from his childhood years. Of course, the kitchen master has no idea about last night's happenings, only vague rumours that had inevitably drifted down the servant's gossip chain that the youngest prince had suddenly taken ill.

His head tips forward as he begins to doze, only to be startled awake again when his chin connects painfully with his knees. He has lost count of how many times he has forced himself to remain awake. There is something hidden and dark on the boundary between sleep and wakefulness, and Loki does not want to touch his mind to it. He attempts to suppress a yawn, but fails and yawns so hard that he nearly dislocates his jaw. Wincing, he takes another sip of tea.

Footsteps echo from the passage behind him, and he turns his head blearily at the noise. He acknowledges his father with a nod that could actually have been the consequence of nearly dropping into a doze again, and pointedly avoids Thor's concerned gaze.

Odin places two small objects before Loki, and pulls out the chair directly to his left. Thor remains standing, picking up an apple and leaning against the opposite wall, contemplating it with a dark air of worry. Loki sniffs once. He feels a sneeze coming on. Odin opens his mouth to speak, but surprised when silenced by one raised finger from Loki.

Loki takes in a huge breath, a sneezes violently, cloak flying out around him.

Thor chuckles, and Loki gives him a death stare. The effect is ruined slightly by his continued sniffing. He looks sidelong at his father – Odin rarely speaks to his sons while sitting next to them as if he is their long-time friend. The fact that he is doing this now is not a positive omen.

Odin looks grim. He points at the two bracelets before him. "My son, will you consent to wearing these?" he asks. Loki says with a self-mocking tone, "Well, I can full well tell what _that_ one does," flicking his hand at an exact replica of the cuff that shocked him with electricity the day before, "but _that_ one you shall have to elaborate on what new tortures it bodes for me, _father._" His hand now gestures at a bulkier, more ornate bracelet, carved over with intricate runes.

"None of these are meant to harm you, Loki." Odin sighs.

"And didn't that turn out absolutely splendidly yesterday, father. Now pray inform me of the particular effect of this new trinket?" comes the lilting, forcibly lighthearted reply.

Thor speaks. "It restrains your magic." The sentence hangs in the air, brittle as crystal.

Loki puts his feet down to touch the floor, leans forward to put his crossed arms on the table, and rests his head on them, contemplating the bracelet before him with a placid look. _I knew there was something sinister about it the moment it was brought into the room. I feels…wrong._ Then he realises that both Odin and Thor are staring at him intensely, expecting a reply.

Loki pushes himself up so he is sitting upright. His voice as controlled and serene as ever, he places his arms behind his head and leans back on the chair, saying simply, "No."

Thor sighs. "Brother…" his words trail off into silence. He spreads his hands helplessly.

Swing his legs up to rest on the table, Loki once again pronounces clearly, "_No._" And as an afterthought, "You, Thor, saw what that 'harmless' little bracelet did to me yesterday, and you know full well that it was my magic which stopped it short from killing me. Now my magic is reacting in some form or the other. _Was the fault mine, so my only remaining defense is ripped from me?_" His tone is rising by the end of his accusing question.

Odin slams his hand down on the table with a deafening CRACK. Thor jumps and stands a little straighter. Loki is visibly shaken, although his eyes still burn with anger. "You go too far, my son," Odin says, and even though he does not raise his voice, every word hammers authority. "And you presume too much," he continues, even as Loki tilts his head defiantly. "This is for your own good. It has been a while since I forced one of my sons to act against their will," and here his eyes flick to Thor, "but sometimes it is absolutely necessary. This is one of those times. If you lose control again, and the lightning consumes all your energy, you will _die_. And I cannot bear to lose you again." His voice has gone quiet.

Thor looks like he wants to speak, but he thinks better of it at the last second. He merely glances at his father expectantly. "Loki, I order you to wear these devices – both of them – and we shall speak of this no more," Odin says, appearing incredibly tired.

The knuckles on Loki's hands have turned a bleached white, and his mouth is pressed into a thin line. His eyes are so dark, they could be black. Memories of the agony suffered on the citadel wall the day before rise fresh into his mind, and he imagines the pain building and intensifying, and his magic boiling inside him but restrained and unable to help. A cowled shadow. A white-fingered hand. Fear rises like bile in the back of his throat, constricting his breathing and forcing his heartbeat to a fevered pitch. He looks at his father, then Thor, then his father again, and finds no compassion or mercy in those faces. He expects none. _But father…_ The terror in his soul shows itself outwardly as anger. The words come tumbling out of his mouth, "I cannot! I will not wear that – that _thing_ on my wrist. What monsters must you be to force such a thing upon me! Do you have no humanity? No mercy? Do you even _care_?" He is shouting now, standing, nearly tripping over his cloak in desperation, trying somehow to make them understand.

And in the depths of his being, he feels something stir, pulsing with the dread in his heart. And as he flings out a shaking finger to point at the ornate, beautiful bracelet, that _something_ flows down his arm and through his hand, leaping in a magnificent arc of light that sparks down to the empty silver cup before him, sending the goblet flying with a dangerous velocity across the room to smash on the opposite wall with a loud crash.

In that single, glorious moment, Loki sees the shock on his father and brother's faces, and dimly, his heart twists in dark joy at their reactions to his power. But then he remembers the exhaustion brought on previously by the lightning, and he quickly pulls his hand back, attempting to sever it. The thread of light whips back and dances between his fingertips for an instant, before melding back through his skin. The power thunders through his hand and into the rest of his body, ricocheting inside his chest. Loki sits down hard on the wooden chair, stunned.

A guard stumbles hastily through the door, brandishing a spear, "Is everything all right, sire? I heard a noise," he says.

Thor dismisses him impatiently with a wave of his hand, hurrying to his brother's side. Odin leans forward, gripping the back of Loki's chair. "How do you feel, my son?" he asks frantically. "Are you well?" Thor asks almost at the same time.

Loki nods slowly, and stands up, pushing away their supporting hands. He takes a slow breath, and wonders at how strengthened he feels. "I am well," he says, "I think I may have adapted the power to supply me with energy instead to draining me of it." When he looks within, his mind is a deep, glowing pool of bright light. Then he snaps out of his reverie.

"I'm going out," he says shortly. At Thor's exclamation, he spins around – still managing to look regal and elegant, despite being dressed in pyjamas – and silences him with a look. "Good day," he nods at his father. And then he is gone, in a swish of fine fabric. His feet make no sound on the cold marble floor.

Odin touches the two bracelets left lying forlornly on the table, and says, "Look after him."

"I will send Damian," Thor replies, striding out of the room. Odin sighs again, tracing the electric burn mark on the hardwood table with one weary finger. His two sons combined give him more of a headache than the rest of Asgard put together.

{|~|}

The formidable eastern gate of the outer citadel wall towers over Loki as he weaves easily between the crowds passing through the relatively small door etched from the metal gate proper. The nearby wall shields the throng from the heat of the sun, which has reached its zenith, burning brightly in the sky.

Dressed once more in his usual leather and cloak, his hood down and wrist free of the boundary-activated device, Loki is determined to get out of the citadel and regain some semblance of freedom. Of course, his secondary motive is to trace the path of The Other. _That is, if he may be found._ An irrational fear rises, and Loki shakes his head to clear it.

Loki moves through the noisy gabble with the fluidity and swiftness of a ghost, feet seeming almost to not press the ground, so silent and precise their movement. His steps soon slow to a walking pace as he progresses into the main eastern avenue, cobbled stone lining a wide, busy road.

Not too long after, Loki realises that people are avoiding his gaze. It is obviously not difficult to figure out his identity, a tall man with green eyes, black hair and clothes of the finest cut. But it is what lies in the eyes of these common people of Asgard that disturbs him – their reactions include fear, doubt, suspicion, eyes perpetually narrowed and hands quick to pull their children in the opposite direction. He remembers Aidan, and how his mother dragged him away. A mere _child_ had told him that he was a "monster". The corners of Loki's mouth turn down slightly.

With mind adrift for a moment, he does not spy the old man with a slender walking stick crossing his path. A tumble and a cry of pain later, Loki is apologizing profusely while taking the white-haired man's arm and helping him to his feet. The old man has smile-lines around his azure blue eyes, and his reliance on his cane does not hide the fact that the sharpness of his mind is undiminished. "Watch it, watch where you're going, my boy," he croaks half-jokingly, "try not to lose your head in the clouds while you are still young." He brushes himself down, flicking dust from the road off his fingertips.

"My sincere apologies, elder," Loki replies, performing a short half bow, "the fault is all mine."

"Well, of course the fault is yours, dear boy!" the old man exclaims, "Who else? Mine?" He taps his walking stick on Loki's feet. Only then does he turn his laughing eyes to Loki's face. The smile dies on his lips. "Ah," he says involuntarily. Now the smile has returned, except that it is bitter. The happy light in the man's eyes is replaced by something hard and impenetrable.

But some of Loki's inner emotions must have shown on his face, because the moment passes, and the man is once more jovial. "My dear prince," the old man says. Loki raises his eyebrows expectantly. "Put your hood up," the man whispers conspirationally, winking once. Then he hobbles on his way, whistling a faraway tune.

Loki looks after him with a slight smile, a little cheered, and reaches to place the gold-lined cowl over his head. With his face clothed in shadow, he no longer has to see the distrust in every person's expression. He expands his mind to encompass his surroundings, so that even though his hood prevents him from observing what is behind him, he is well aware of anyone in his vicinity.

A blip in the thought-scape.

Loki frowns. Why, the same mind as yesterday. He rolls his eyes, knowing that it cannot be The Other – this mind is so uptight and structured that it must have been military-trained some way or the other. _Great. A tracker._ Loki wanders about the stores on the street for a few minutes, pondering what to do. Of course, he could lose the tail easier than a flick of his hand. But then the tracker would just come back and be annoying again, and if he was annoyed some not very nice things might happen to the unsuspecting fellow. Sigh. His mind settles on the only option left. Oh well. Better get it over with.

He stops walking suddenly in the middle of the road, as if frozen in ice. A crowd of laughing schoolchildren swarms like bees around him, with an occasional "Sorry mister" as they bump into his cloak. Loki's thoughts are like a plane of glass, smooth and undisturbed, waiting for the opportune moment.

Not yet, not yet…now.

With a burst of magic, Loki creates an apparition that looks and acts exactly like him, conjuring it standing in the precise position that he is standing in right now. As the last child come running laughing past him, he swivels on both feet and ducks downwards, moving quickly, crouched between the children, to a shadowed corner on the side of the street. The apparition stands where he stood barely a moment ago, and to a passerby, the prince of Asgard had never moved from that spot.

Loki grins to himself, twists his long fingers, and the version of himself begins walking again, turning into a quiet side street. With a little twitch of power, he adds sound to the apparition's footsteps, just for effect. When the vision has passed more than thirty steps into the passage, he closes his eyes and lets it drift into nothingness in the air.

The next second, a figure dressed in black appears on the roof of the opposite building, head turning from left to right in search of his target. Loki smiles. _There you are, good man._ He watches as the tracker drops down to ground level, entering the same side street that the apparition stepped into.

Shaking his head patronizingly, Loki clicks his tongue at the mediocre skills of the Asgardian tracker. _Why, I could do better._ He stops himself and laughs softly. _Of course I would do better._ He sweeps his cloak back and steps back into the sunlight, humming a happy tune to himself. A few well-placed steps take him to the shadows of the side street. This is going to be an interesting conversation.

{|~|}

Damian is in a tightly controlled panic. _No, no, not again_. The prince has managed to lose him again, just like the day before. _Thor's going to murder me._ Gripping the hilt of short sword tightly, he runs down the darkened street, feet splashing in puddles of tepid water. He could have sworn he saw Loki turn the corner, but now he is nowhere to be seen. Damian whispers a steady string of curses under his breath, eyes rapidly scanning for a flash of green, a glint of gold, anything that may give the prince's position away. So concentrated is he on finding Loki, he does not hear to light step behind him, or the barely discernable rasp of a selected dagger being drawn from its sheath.

An elegant hand affixes itself on his collar, and although the short sword appears incredibly fast in Damian's left hand, a light rap on his knuckles sends it flying away from his grasp and clatter on the ground.

Damian is slammed head first into the nearest brick – no, stone – wall, and before the fuzziness in his eyes clear, he sees the wall rushing towards his face for the second time.

CRUNCH.

Damian opens his eyes. Somehow he is lying horizontally on the ground – how did he get there? – and he sees his bloody nose reflected in a clear puddle right in front of him. A second later, a slightly curious but mostly bored face framed with sable hair enters the image in the puddle.

Gasping, he attempts to draw his backup knife, but stops when the icy touch of a throwing blade touches the corner of his jaw.

"Now, now," comes the cajoling voice, "please don't do that. I would hardly want to cause you unnecessary harm. How about I take _that,_" the knife is pulled away and weighed lightly in a white-fingered hand, "and I help you up, and we talk like gentlemen?" Damian feels himself being turned to lean against a wall, and his eyes fall on the gently smiling Loki, who crouches down so their faces are level.

"Hello," says Loki, cocking his head and speaking as if he were talking to a small child. Damian's eyes are wide with terror, and he presses his lips tightly shut.

"Not a very talkative fellow, are you?" sighs the prince, tapping his red-bladed dagger against his fingernails. "You," he says, poking the tracker in the chest, "are at an advantage. You obviously know who I am, but you have not had the courtesy to tell me your name," Loki's voice is a façade of politeness.

"Damian, sir," the tracker replies. It does not occur to him in any way to lie. He was sure Loki would know if he did.

"And who are you working for, _Damian_?"

"I-I," Damian stutters. All his training comes to naught as he struggles not to give in to his fear.

Loki's stands upright. "You are testing my patience," he says coldly. The dangerous gleam is back in his eyes.

The tracker prepares himself mentally for something extremely painful.

Then a shadow passes over Loki's features, and he whips to face the mouth of the street, tense, listening for something that Damian cannot see or hear. With a _schick_, he sheathes the throwing knife.

Damian relaxes, only to gasp in a strangled voice when Loki draws both his long knives.

With eyes fixed on a distant spot on the other street, Loki walks closer to the tracker, who tries to shuffle backwards. "I am sorry," Loki says absentmindedly, and his left hand slices across Damian's right leg, leaving a long, shallow cut. The tracker's scream of pain is muffled when the prince reverses his hand to clamp tightly over his mouth, nose wrinkling in distaste.

Damian feels like his leg is on fire. But then the throbbing suddenly diminishes significantly, and he gives Loki a questioning look. "Can't have you running anywhere, can we? We're not done here," the prince says, never turning from the street on the far opposite. Then he glances quickly at Damian, "but there's no real need for cruelty, is there?"

It is possible to say that Damian was understandably surprised by this little act of mercy. "Why –" he begins, but Loki is already gone, melding swiftly into the shadows, twin blades held at the ready.

Damian stares after him. Whatever distracted the prince, it must be important for him to leave so suddenly. He remembers his instructions – _keep my brother safe_ – and slowly, painfully, tries to get to his feet. His right leg is completely useless, but he grits his teeth, limping after Loki with a determined frown.

He is _not_ going to lose the prince's trail.

{|~|}

Loki's heart is pounding again. He runs fleet-footed after the dark shadow, knowing somehow that it is no ordinary figure. He is not yet sure whether it _is_ The Other, but he is not about to let whoever it is get away from him. His two long knives in his hands, he leaps over debris and rubbish in the narrow side streets, all the while desperately trying to think up a plan of attack.

Looking up at the sunlit gap between the two structures on either side of the street, Loki uses his momentum to flip upwards, landing on a lamp bracket that trembles under his weight. He calculates his next jump to lever off a window ledge, and lands on the roof in a crouch, barely slowing his speed. He discards any semblance of concealment, and runs lightly on, using magic to aid any leaps over gaps in the houses. He dimly registers the shocked exclamations of the people below, knowing that they see a figure dressed in green and gold travelling swift as the wind, sunlight gleaming off his double blades.

And as he flips over a particularly long gap in the buildings, arms out for balance and his hair swept back from his face, at the apex of his flight, he sees the outline of the shadow clearly for the first time. Even with his pointed feet over his head in mid-leap, Loki knows from past, from dream, from half-forgotten memory that it is truly _he_. Loki softens his landing with a fluid burst of golden light, and redoubles his speed.

He is sure that The Other knows that he is following – _the element of surprise is no factor here_ – but he has no intention of letting that thing out of his sight. If The Other is going to kill him anyway, it would come on his own terms.

_He's leading me to the outskirts of the city._ Loki registers this information, and a small kernel of doubt burrows its way into his mind. But he shakes his hair out of his eyes and continues running all the same. A dark alley looms ahead, and Loki skids to a controlled stop on the edge of a roof, peering into the shadows below.

The Other stands silently, hooded head tilted upwards at Loki, who is silhouetted against the bright sunlight. Loki suppresses a shiver. Although nothing can be seen in the darkness under the cowl, he is sure that The Other is looking straight back into his green eyes.

Mentally preparing himself for whatever may come, Loki simply steps off the ledge, cloak spread about him on his descent. He lands with barely a whisper of cloth, knives out at the ready.

"Have you come to kill me?" Loki asks directly, "It was what I was promised." Although his voice is perfectly level, he is forced to hide his right hand behind him as once again electricity sparks between his fingers entirely against his will. Only now does he remember his dreams, as if they were premonitions that mock him at the coming of his fate.

The Other cocks its head, and takes a breath that sounds like a death rattle. The bloody mouth twists in a crude imitation of a smile.

**What do you think? I got this written faster than I thought :) So what **_**is**_** The Other planning to do? Hahaha – see you in 8 or 9 days, I'm pretty sure that will be my regular update time from now on. I love you all, and I hence bow out in fatigue. The I.B. course is killing me slowly and painfully :D Oh, and poor Damian. I didn't mean to treat him so badly; it just turned out that way. I'm rather fond of him, actually.**


	4. Chapter 4

**AAAND I'm back! *faces completely empty auditorium. Audience: nil. Author deflates* Oh well, hello again, I suppose. Thou art graced with a sufficiently short author's note to-day, to reconcile the length of the previous…**

**Reviews:**

**lylabeth: Thank you so much! It really helped me to generate enough conviction to write, even when I was crushed under a mountain of projects and work and Extended Essay stuff. :D **

**LiesmithLoki: Great predictions! Yep, Loki's in for some real pain soon…he can expect to suffer miserably for his mistakes. The Other is never what he seems, he's scheming something terrible Thank you for reviewing! I needed that encouragement, with all the work I have to do *hugs* **

**Right. Here's the next chapter! Oh, and I don't own the Avengers. Yay.**

The Other cocks its head, and takes a breath that sounds like a death rattle. The bloody mouth twists in a crude imitation of a smile.

Loki smiles daringly in return, giving a short bow in a sarcastic imitation of politeness. His self-control hides the fear twisting in his heart. "Well?" Loki says airily, "No answer?" A quick check behind him reveals that his right hand has stopped sparking electricity. He takes one step forward, hands out in a gesture of frank carelessness.

The Other flicks his head as if in irritation and hisses, "That depends on your decision, little prince." He chuckles slightly, the sound not unlike that which a snake makes when choking back its prey.

"Why, _my_ decision?" Loki asks, "Then pray, do enlighten me. What is this decision you speak of?" All the while, his eyes are travelling back and forth, judging distances and identifying points in the alleyway that would come to his advantage if the fighting were to begin.

As the sunlight shifts its narrow angle in the dark alleyway, a beam of light falls upon The Other's hand. With a snarl of disgust, he shakes his cloak to shield himself from the ray. "My master…" The Other pauses for effect, seeing Loki flinch unthinkingly at the reference to _him_. "My master believes that the time has not yet come for you to be killed."

The knot in Loki's chest loosens too soon, for The Other continues, "But he has something he wants to take care of. If you agree, then, shall we say, your life will be spared. If not…" Again, that choking, horrible snort of laughter.

Loki feigns placidity, saying in a serene sort of way, "You know, you mustn't amuse yourself too much. By the sound of it, too much of that merriment will sooner or later mean your end." A thinly veiled threat underlies his words.

The laughter coils dangerously into a snarl.

Loki shrugs, and flicks a piece of dirt off his boot with one of his long knives. "And what is this…_thing_, that if I do is supposed to be my saving grace?" he smiles. He thinks he hears a sound to his left in an empty house, and his gaze rests there momentarily. But then The Other speaks, and his attention is diverted.

"The answer is simple, and you are in a good position to act on it," The Other says. "Kill your father."

The three words, though spoken lightly, fall like hammer blows into Loki's consciousness. His eyes widen slightly, and he nearly loses grip of his double knives in shock. _ Kill…Father?_ For a moment, he who is ever silvertongued is at a loss for words. He loses all semblance of calm. His initial reaction is surprising, for it is one of vehement denial and anger.

_Time. I need to buy time. But how?_

Mouth dry, Loki wets his lips and barely murmurs, "If I…decline this offer?" The Other shifts and leers, his cloak crackling like a dried insect carapace, and says tauntingly, "Well, little prince, perhaps you shall shortly be reunited with your pitiful army in whatever stinking, horrifying hellfire that fate reserves for people of your calibre.

Tightening his grip on his weapons, Loki's thoughts fly frantically. If he did not agree to kill his father, it was extremely likely that he would face a painful, slow death. If he, however, did agree…he shakes his head, unwilling to think that far ahead.

Torn between care for his father and fear for his own life, Loki trembles in stress. He is doubtful that he would be able to face The Other and end victorious; this is not because he had little faith in his abilities, but rather that he was sure The Other's master had something planned for the occasion.

It is this, erroneous, assumption that seals Loki's fate.

His hands move too quickly to be seen, sheathing the long knives with a _ring_ of metal. He straightens up, flips his hair out of his eyes and says loudly and clearly, "So be it. I shall kill him." The words tumble out of his mouth so hastily it is almost as if he forbids himself the chance to withdraw them. He presses his lips tightly together.

The Other clicks and shuffles, expressing pleasure at Loki's decision. A hand goes to a pouch hanging under his cloak Loki tenses and brings out a single ring set with a sapphire blue stone.

"This will enable you to contact us when you have done the deed," he hisses, "for it is not unexpected that there will be some unpleasantness for you when your father is discovered dead. My master is kind. He offers a place of shelter when you are done." The many-fingered hand tosses the ring towards Loki, the stone glimmering bright in the sunlight for a brief instant, before Loki snatches it deftly from the air.

Loki looks at the ring pensively, and slips it onto the first finger of his left hand, where its weight oppressively reminds him of the task ahead. He clenches his fingers to suppress their trembling. Without even glancing at The Other, he turns on his heel to go, boots clacking on the cobbled ground.

He has barely walked two steps when the voice from his nightmares stops him in his tracks. "My master wishes it to be done by tonight," comes the rattle of breath. Loki pauses, and then nods once, half turning his head.

Although his step is clear and rhythmic, his thoughts and emotions boil and roll in his heart and mind. _What am I to do?_

}

Damian clenches his teeth more in frustration than pain as he half limps, half drags himself along narrow streets. Loki's pain-dampening spell had been merciful, as it spares him what hurt the wound on his leg would have caused otherwise, but it is also troubling, for now Damian has no self-excuse to _not _fulfill his duty of keeping an eye on the prince. Of course, forcibly towing a wounded leg across stone ground exacerbates the harm, but he is not about to allow Loki to escape again, especially when some inner tracker's instinct tells him that whatever it was that distracted Loki must be a terrible threat indeed.

_Bother this leg!_ Damian is drenched with sweat, and a string of choice curses begins to run its way out of his mouth. The next few minutes are filled with painful repetition grab a handhold, drag the leg, grab a handhold, drag the leg and then with an audible _crack_, something important in his foot snaps. He cringes, retreating within himself, waiting for the pain to come.

It doesn't.

Loki's spell encompasses more of his leg than he thought before. Wiping his eyes with one bedraggled sleeve, he sneaks a glance at his leg. Even in terms of soldier and tracker language, it would classify as not pretty. He isn't getting anywhere with this leg, agony or no.

Sighing, he slumps next to an iron grate and closes his eyes for a little while, sorely aware of the minutes passing. Then a little voice at the back of his consciousness whispers, _well, you have but one choice left, don't you, my friend?_ He groans, and murmurs to himself, "but I don't want to…"

But even as he says this, he reaches into the recesses of his mind and finds that which has always been a part of him. The members of Damian's family once were great sorcerers, renowned across Asgard for their brilliance. Over the generations, the magical blood had thinned somewhat, and the family had diversified into other occupations. Damian became a tracker, but, like all those in his family, one last piece of magic hides curled at his fingertips.

The ability, explained in few words, is to pick any position on Asgardian soil and disappear and reappear there instantaneously. For the past generations where magic runs deep and powerful, this power was used daily, as an easy means of transport. For Damian, however, it would be much more taxing he would be mentally and physically exhausted afterwards. The real question is, would invoking the spell be worth it? After all, he wouldn't be able to defend Loki if need be in the tired state that he would be left in.

But then at least he would have done his duty to the best of his ability.

Taking a deep breath, Damian closes his eyes again and calms his thoughts until they are as flat and featureless as a still ocean on a star-covered night. The magic within him seems to stir from its sleep, and fills his mind with a quiet inquiry.

_Begin_, Damian orders, and his voice seems to echo over a vast expanse.

The slightest hint of an affirmative, and the magic glows softly, then blows outwards, filling his mind with a brilliant white light. _Where?_ Comes the question.

_Loki._ Damian gasps the reply.

For a second, he feels himself drift away from his body towards nothingness in the half-light between dreams and reality. And then air and noise and the warmth of the day once again wash over him, and he opens his eyes to see blackness, except for a chink of light before him.

He is in some sort of abandoned structure, and the crack in the door offers a sufficient view of the street outside. Before he has the chance to get his bearings, a wave of tiredness overwhelms him; so severe his heart flutters in his chest and his breath hitches, eyes beginning to glaze over.

Then with a sobbing breath, life rushes back into his lungs. Gasping, he puts his eye to the crack in the door, and the world once again fills his vision.

Loki stands tense as a whip on his right, staring intently at a dark-robed figure standing on the left. Damian tries to shift so that he can fully see the shadowed man, but the angle of his peephole can only see an edge of a cloak. Some sort of dried substance breaks under his hand with a muted _snap_.

Loki's eyes flash towards Damian's hiding place, tilting his head slightly in suspicion. Damian swallows in trepidation, convinced that the prince's eyes are staring right into his.

But then Loki is distracted by the other man in black, who speaks as if continuing a conversation. When Damian overhears their speech, his eyes widen in fright. For him, nothing matters except the two most important utterances, two fateful lines that clash and thunder in his loyal heart.

_Kill your father._

_So be it I shall kill him._

Loki. The prince. The son is under a contract to kill his father.

So momentous is this information that Damian cannot process the rest of the conversation. By the time he comes back to himself, the alley is deserted, and there is nought but the silent wind and sauntering stray black cat for company.

Damian reaches out a shaking hand and pushes the door open, tumbling in a jumbled mess onto the stone street among the pained creak of the wooden hinges. He lands on his leg, and finally he feels a modicum of pain spike, even though he knows that it is far lesser than what he would feel without the help of magic.

Magic.

_Can I make it back to Thor?_

Closing his eyes, Damian regulates his breathing, and searches once again for that spark of sorcery residing in his mind. _Begin._

The answer floats in a haze of exhaustion _No._ Nearly crying out in frustration, the tracker lets himself flop backwards, the sunlight from above creating spots in his vision. He has no choice but to wait until he regains some of his strength. But that may take hours and Loki has already gone.

_Sire, sire!_ cries the struggling heart of the loyal tracker. Twin tracks of clear liquid run from the corners of his eyes, as he cries his silent pain to the sky.

}

A dark mood hangs over Loki as he treads into the grand hallway of the citadel. Ignoring the polite greetings of nobles and the deferent nods and bows of servants alike, he storms into his room and shuts the door with a violent _bang_. This causes a particular man to drop the basket of apples he is holding, and they tumble all over the corridor. Busy as the hallway is, nobody even pauses to pick the fruit up. Footmen and maidservants keep a wide berth from his room, sensing something amiss with the youngest prince. Those who are passing down the corridor walk just a slight bit faster. The young manservant who fumbled with the apples begins to scuttle here and there, collecting his burden with a chagrined look on his simple face.

A roar of barely controlled emotion issuing from the general direction of the hardwood door of Loki's bedroom makes the servant blanch and the basket slip from his fingers. Whimpering slightly in fear, he tries to make a run for it, slipping and sliding over the shiny red fruit as he turns the corner. For a moment, the passage is as silent as it would be in the depths of the night.

Then a quiet sob can be heard, scarcely audible. And another.

In his room, Loki buries his head in his shaking hands, and tries to swallow the sobs that rise unbidden to his throat, only to choke and hiccup in distress. He is curled up on his bed with his back to the wall, boots and all, and his cloak makes him appear no more than child swathed in a sea of green. The storm of emotions raging in him is so intense and extreme, he wonders how he does not just explode from within.

_What to do? What to do?_

The questions course through his mind like a river in full swell, and they serve no purpose but to deepen his despair. Loki runs his hands through his sable hair repeatedly, combing it away from his face while taking deep, shuddering breaths in an attempt to calm himself. Images of his father's kind smile a memory from long ago overlap with that of a hand his own hand holding a gleaming silver knife.

The thought fills him with indescribable agony. But in the end, the choice is simple. On one side stands his father. On the other, his own life.

_Which do I value more?_

But weeks ago the answer would have been obvious and instantaneous. The Loki then would have chosen himself over anything under Yggdrasil without a blink of an eye. But now, as Loki raises both his hands before him as if weighing his father and his life on each palm, he is no longer sure of his choice.

The corner of Loki's mouth lifts as he remembers the old days when he used to laugh and play with Odin, and for the shortest while he is filled with self-loathing as he hates himself for even considering killing his father. But then other memories file before his eyes his father's proud look at Thor, always Thor and that fateful moment on the Bifrost bridge, when life and death was connected but by a single thread, and Odin's final, severe answer that strikes Loki in his heart of hearts.

_What is it like to die?_

Blackness? Suffocating? What comes after? Is there even anything after?

More questions.

_My master wishes for it to be done by tonight._

No time.

And the prince of Asgard snarls to himself, rolls off his bed, and strides for the door. Outside, he grabs the first servant he sees and asks for his father's present location.

The servant sees something disturbed and macabre in Loki's face, and shrinks back, eking out a sentence, "He…he is in his chambers, my lord. He is reading the citadel reports."

Loki pushes the man away and is off at almost a run, leaving the servant massaging his neck and feeling like he just escaped by the skin of his teeth.

}

Thor stands at top of the eastern citadel gate, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of his brother or Damian. The chatter and bustle of the throng of people drifts upward to his ears on the rising wind. Hand on Mjolnir, he taps a fingernail on the hard leather grip, brow creased. His golden hair shines like fire in the noonday sun.

An hour ago, Mjolnir had crackled and shuddered with suppressed power, only to settle into stillness barely a few minutes later. This does not bode well, for Thor knows that Loki is now inextricably linked with the hammer's hidden magic.

Thor growls in frustration. _Where is that idiot tracker Damian?_ Damian was supposed to send a report, but his assistants had had no message from him, not even a word.

He begins to pace back and forth on the narrow path on top of the citadel wall, crimson cloak swinging about his feet with every step. Every few minutes he glances down at the eastern avenue, searching.

Something shifts, and a muted concussion blasts across the ground, passing through the wall with a _thud_ that almost throws Thor off his feet. The birdsong stops, and his ears pop from the change in pressure. The taste of magic crackles in the air, and screams issue from the crowd below.

As the people yell and gasp and trip over each other in their attempt to run away from a particular spot on the ground, Thor hurries to the parapet, wind whipping his hair into disarray.

In a small, round, smoking hole gouged out of solid stone, Damian lies curled, still and barely breathing. He moves his fingers feebly, croaking something indecipherable. Thor leaps off the citadel wall and lands on one knee, running quickly over to the tracker, pushing frightened people out of the way. When he reaches him, Thor for a moment thinks that Damian lives no more, so utterly motionless does he lie.

But then Damian heaves a guttered breath, and his eyelids flutter open to reveal glazed irises. His mouth forms the shape of words, but Thor cuts him off anxiously, seeing the extent of his wounds. "I need a physician here immediately!" he shouts at the surrounding audience.

An icy hand grips his ankle, and Thor looks down to see Damian gasping words with difficulty. "My lord…the king…the king…" a wave of pain overwhelms him, and he grits his teeth. "Yes?" Thor asks. "the king…in danger," Damian manages, causing Thor's blue eyes to widen, "Saw…Loki…agree to kill…him."

"To kill who?" Thor questions, "The assassin?" He is unwilling to believe what he heard, and his natural instinct is to reject Damian's frank accusation. A hardness born of despair and excruciating pain creeps into Damian's face, and he uses the last of his strength to snatch Thor's collar in an iron grip, nearly tipping the prince over from his kneeling position.

"Loki…to kill…Odin," comes the final blow. Then Damian's hand falls, and his eyes roll back into his head as he slips into the blessed world of unconsciousness.

Thor's heart is beating inexpressibly fast as he tries to process this new information, even as the telltale rattle of the physician's tools behind him shows that medical help has arrived. The timid, worried voice asks, "May I, my lord?"

But Thor does not answer, for he turns towards the citadel so fast his boot skids in a half-moon of dust, and is away is a breath of wind, Mjolnir whirring frantically.

The physician is left blinking behind wire-framed glasses, and then spins to face the injured tracker who suffered because of an excess of loyalty.

}

Particles of dust fly like brilliant stars through the window of light cast on Odin's table. The king's weathered hands brush across clean, thick parchment, creating a soothing rustle of fingers against paper. The reports bring good news. All is in order in Asgard except Loki. Odin sighs deeply, his younger son once again coming to the forefront of his thoughts. He loves Loki very much he sometimes wonders if his son would ever feel the same about his father.

Odin's fingers come to a standstill as he falls into pensive thought, eyes far away in happier times with his two sons. In the brightest corner of the spacious room, he is sitting at his table of hard wood, and birdsong can be heard from the tree just outside.

All is calm, and tranquil.

A clear, careful, restrained knock on the door on the far end of the room.

"Enter," Odin says without looking up, lifting one piece of parchment to look at the one under, the translucent sheet casting a warm yellow over his hand.

Someone steps lightly and hesitantly into the chamber, and the door closes with a controlled _click_. He hears whomever it is take a breath to compose himself, and Odin knows it is Loki, although he does not turn his head to show his expression.

"Father," comes the quiet murmur. Odin looks over his shoulder, and gestures for Loki to come closer, seeing the stress and pain lined in his son's features.

Loki is struck by how old and frail his father seems, dappled in streaks of light, bearing him no ill-will in his kind face. He swallows past the lump in his throat, and walks silently towards his father.

He holds a dagger tightly behind his back.

Fingers white from pressure, Loki wants to smile, to laugh, to convince his father somehow that all is well but it must not have quite reached his eyes, for Odin frowns.

_Do it now, before you doubt_, the little voice in his head says. Loki clenches his teeth, and though he commands his hand to move, it does not.

"Father," he once again gasps. He cannot manage a word more. Odin's eyes soften, and he beckons Loki towards him. "Let me see you properly, my son," he says, mentioning nothing of the argument that they had over the magic-restraining bracelet that morning. Loki steps closer to him, and the hand holding the dagger shakes in dreaded anticipation. The light glances off the gold of his clothes and cloak, and gently brings his features from half shadow.

"How you have grown, Loki," Odin says almost wistfully, "Gone now is that little boy who loved to play in solitude. You have changed much." He sighs tiredly, and sweeps the parchments lying on his desk to one side, turning to face his son. What he says next is so surprising to Loki that he nearly drops the silver knife in his hand. "I am sorry, my son," Odin says, "I have not been the best father of late. I would never cause you unnecessary harm."

Loki forces himself to speak. "I too am sorry, father. I'm so he chokes on the words as he seeks to apologise somehow for what he is about to do what he is steeling himself to do.

Odin mistakes Loki's meaning for what passed between them that morning, and says, "Forget the past, my son, and the mistakes we both have made.

"No, father, you misunderstand me," Loki answers, and a desperate note enters his voice. He must make his father _understand_ before he attempts what must be done. "I chose the wrong path. There is no going back how can I allow the errors and faults that I have made pass out of my memory when their consequences are still before me?

"What consequences?" Odin returns, "You are safe now in Asgard, and your brother and I hold no resentment against you. Be happy, my son!

Loki remains standing stiff and erect, eyes refusing to meet his father's. Seeing that the prince is unmoved by his words, Odin lets out a breath, places both arms on the table and pushes himself upright, putting a hand on Loki's shoulder. Loki twists his body slightly to keep the drawn blade hidden. Odin is now well within striking range, and Loki knows that with his speed and grace, if he were to use the knife in his hand now, Odin would die before him then and there.

_Stab him!_ _Do it now!_ Loki's mind rages a battle against itself, even as Odin says lightly, "I love you, my son. Will you someday learn to love your father as you once did?

That same painful premonition that awakened in Loki's heart before begins to creep down into his fingertips, and once again his hidden hand sparks and flashes with pulses of electricity, stronger than ever before.

Loki is afraid. But not for himself for his father.

And with that realisation, a surge of self-understanding courses like a stream of flowing water through his consciousness. And with this knowledge, all the uncertainty and struggle in Loki's soul loosens and fades into nothing. All is suddenly at peace, and the fear that tears inside him is swept away by the clarity that now resounds. Odin is the king of the nine realms what power does he hold? Why, he would be safe with his father!

_If I tell him everything, father can help me._

He surreptitiously tucks the knife under his cloak and into the back of the belt that ties around the middle of his waist. And for the first time in years, centuries, Loki sits at the feet of his father, like he used to do when he was a child hungry for a story. "Father, I have so much to tell you. Can I…ask…you to listen?" his hair casts his face in shadow, mirroring the shame he feels.

Odin smiles a true smile of joy."Of course, my son."

The sound of pounding footsteps can be heard faintly approaching, increasing rapidly in volume, but father and son pay no heed as Loki tries to begin. "I made many mistakes, and allied myself with the wrong people."

Cries and clashings reverberate in the hallway outside. Thor's voice can be heard, muffled, shouting, "Father!"

Odin and Loki take no notice, as the prince continues, "I broke my agreement with them I lost Midgard and now they are going to"

BANG.

The door is flung open so violently that the brass-iron hinges crack and strain. Thor storms in, accompanied by a full dozen soldiers armed in full steel garb.

What happens next takes place so fast that neither Loki nor Odin has time to react. Thor motions Mjolnir once, and sends a full bolt of white-hot lightning into Loki's chest, slamming him head over heels across the room and away from his father. Loki screams in unbridled pain, and is abruptly cut off when he hits the hard floor at an agonizing velocity. He gasps for breath, all the world a throbbing haze of red while Thor asks Odin quickly, "Are you alright, father? Did he hurt you?"

As the citadel guards hurry to where Loki lies in the minor depression on the stone floor, Odin shakes himself out of Thor's grip and thunders, "What in heaven's name are you doing? What is the meaning of this?"

Grimly satisfied that his father is unharmed, Thor says, "Loki has made a pact with others to kill you, father."

The words hang in midair, their brevity like a mantle of cold descending on the room.

Loki twists painfully onto his hands and knees, choking out a mouthful of blood. "No," he says, "No, I The guards leap at him, wrestling the prince away from Odin and Thor, clapping iron manacles on his wrists and searching him roughly for weapons. Loki could have shaken them off easily, but he is desperately trying to plead his case and misses his only chance of escape.

Thor stares at Loki with a new light, and for the first time, the younger brother sees hate in the depths of those eyes, albeit hidden under the stronger emotions of confusion and anger. "Why, Loki?" Thor whispers, "Was I blinded by my love for you so as to misjudge you completely?" He pauses in something akin to amazement. "Who are you?" he asks wonderingly.

Loki looks right at Odin, and gasps, "Father, this is not true!" But then the captain of the guards yanks the hidden dagger from Loki's belt and holds it for all to see. "Sire," the captain says, "this was unsheathed and under his cloak."

A fire burns in Thor's blue eyes, eyes that are no longer kind they are guarded and cold as ice. Taking two steps forward, he leans down, reaches out a hand and grabs Loki's wrist, taking something jeweled from his belt and striking it onto Loki's arm with an inevitable finality.

Loki barely registers that it is the bracelet that is supposed to restrain his magic, before he jerks backwards in shock, back hitting the floor for the second time. It is like someone had taken a cloth and clamped it tightly over his mouth and nose, robbing him of both the ability to breathe and the capacity to make any noise whatsoever. This unseen force holds him rigid and silent while a rushing hellstorm of _something_ it may have been ice, or fire, or a veil of stabbing daggers thrashes within his chest and breaks through the barrier protecting his mind with a mere touch, ripping his very consciousness into shreds.

And he cannot scream, although every fibre of his being convulses achingly.

When the whirlwind of needles retracts with a judder from the innermost depths of his mind, he can only stare at the finely decorated wall, stunned. He is lying on his side. A brief whimper escapes past his lips, for he feels raw and unprotected, and so, so alone without his magic shielding him. He is like a newborn child again.

Thor does not spare Loki even a glance as he pushes off the floor and stands up, boots passing near his head as he walks to stand next to his father.

Odin, who has been deathly quiet through all of this, murmurs softly, "Loki? Tell me. Is this true?" He seems to grow old before them, a withered weariness descending upon his brow. He steps closer to where Loki lies, and kneels next to him, even as the prince struggles with some difficulty to a sitting position. Odin looks at his son searchingly, wanting so much to find proof of his innocence.

Loki dry swallows, unwilling to lift his head, staring at his hands and the patterned stone floor. He knows he cannot, will not, lie. "There was…such an agreement," he whispers, and he hears Odin take a sharp breath, "but that is not all

"Out." Odin says. "Take him away. Thor, take him away now. I do not wish to see his face ever again. Take him away NOW!"

The guards, frightened by the king's outburst, manhandle Loki out of the room with unusual violence, one failing to find a handhold on his clothes and grabbing a handful of his hair instead, consequently causing him to feel like his scalp is being ripped off.

"Father Father!" Loki cries, boots scraping uselessly on the polished floor, cloak spread out around him as he is dragged weaponless, helpless, and without magic to the depths of the citadel dungeons.

Thor, on his way out, places a hand in small comfort on Odin's shoulder. The blonde head is bowed in sorrow, but cannot match the despairing angle of the grey. And as the door swings shut behind the prince, a single line of liquid, clear as crystal, runs down into the beard of the old man who has yet again lost his beloved son.

}

In distinctly separate areas of the citadel, some in shade, some in light:

Damian wakes groggily to the hovering face of the physician.

Thor assigns a double guard for his father.

Odin stares over Asgard, heart empty and hollow.

Loki is thrown unceremoniously on the freezing ground of a cell.

The Other clicks and rattles, for _the boy no longer has his magic to aid him_.

**Cliffie? Or no cliffie? Muahahaha! *Gets conked around the head by beta and abruptly shuts up* Right. Love you all, review please? See you guys in 8 or 9 days….**


	5. Chapter 5

**Why hello there. *The author stands before you in a halfhearted attempt to bow, and promptly sneezes all over the audience.* How charming. Yes, I actually have been ill this week, but DID I UPDATE LATE? I did not! Okay, self-congratulation otherwise, thank you all for the responding to the last chappie!**

**Reviews:**

**Nothing Prodigious: Thank you, it's good to know that the angst I put in the last chapter actually came across as angst. :)**

**johncorn: Thanks, I hope that regular updates will make up for the 8 or 9 days in between chapters!**

**And I'm all out of bubblegum: Thank you so much! :D Haha, Odin's going to regret what he did in this chapter…**

**Mystic: Thank you for liking Damian (wait – it was Damian you were referring to, wasn't it O.o). The layered plot thing was a result of, strangely, my not planning ahead. I tend to insert things into the plot whenever it's necessary for logic's sake, only to realize that actually it could play into a more complex storyline. So it was entirely, entirely coincidental. Thanks again for reviewing!**

**LiesmithLoki: Thank you! Poor Thor and Odin, they're really going to suffer the consequences of their actions… :)**

**I don't own the Avengers, but I DO own any OCs. Especially Damian. Because he's fluffy.**

**Apologies for the idiotic line break problem that my account has.**

Below the citadel, the castle of warmth and life and love and joy, down through two hundred paces of solid rock, lies an empty cavern lit only by a cloud of insubstantial ether hovering near the high-arched ceiling, magically enhanced to emit a faint, shadowy glow. There is utter quiet, save for the drip-drip-drip-drip of water running down the cold walls. Two hours ago, the cavern echoed with frantic cries and pleading words. An hour after that, it had dwindled down to the quiet, suppressed sobs.

Now there is nothing but the sound of oppressive silence.

Loki lies curled on his side, eyes staring blankly at the wall, heart as dark and despairing as the blackness around him. It has been a while since he has summoned even the strength to shift into a less uncomfortable position, or as comfortable as prisoners get in the highest security cell in all of Asgard. That is – if you can call it a cell.

A thin, transparent shield runs in a perfect sphere from right to left and on all sides, enclosing Loki in a dome of power of about forty paces in diameter. The hum of magic is constant and so low in volume that any prisoner could be tricked into believing that he could walk straight from the center of the chamber and into the adjoining passage to his freedom. Only a faint, pulsing gold circle marking the edge of the boundary is any indication of its existence. If Loki had his magic, he would be able to sense that the sphere runs underneath the ground too, preventing escape in any direction.

The shield is tuned to a specific magical signature – Odin's sceptre. No other magical thing, either device or being, can pass through the shield without Odin's express permission. And considering his father's reaction to his "betrayal", Loki isn't going to get a kingly visitor any time in the next couple of decades.

Loki snarls in disgust, turning over in a sudden motion to lie on his other side. His arm already feels bruised from taking his weight for such a short time on the hard stone floor.

A guard peeks his head questioningly from the passage at the sound, armour gleaming dully in the bluish light, eyes hidden under the lip of his helmet. In his hand he holds a sharpened spear, and he wears layers upon layers of padded clothing to keep out the rank coldness underground. Loki is fully aware of the guard's gaze, and remains absolutely still. A moment later, the helmed head retracts back into the hallway.

And that precisely is the function of a holding cell designed like this – no privacy, no security, escape and the exit seeming barely thirty steps from one's grasp, and yet infinitely far away. There are no comforts, no cot to sleep in, only black rock, curving walls, and the cold. So, so cold. Loki's breaths come as wavering mists that drift from his lips and disappear into the frigid air. He has none of the extra warmth that the pair of soldiers guarding him have, and he breaks out in sporadic bursts of shivering.

_Well, at least they let me keep my cloak. _The thin layer of cloth adds almost no protection to his normal outfit of gold and green. What the guards did not let him keep includes his double long knives and his set of throwing daggers. Loki had been checked and re-checked, every last weapon he possessed taken away from him before he was thrown onto the bare stone ground of his new home.

Well, all except for one.

A thin-bladed knife remains sewn into his shirt, a precautionary move Loki had made a few years back in a burst of paranoia. It lies directly above his spine, and its thinness allows it to be mistaken as his backbone. The guards had not discovered it. The prince takes slight comfort in this last, desperate line of defence. If needs be, at least he would die with the feeling of cold metal in his hand. He chuckles humourlessly at the irony of his situation – when he turned to nothing but creating chaos, life was stressful, but good. And then he decided to do the right thing for once, and here he is, locked away in the dungeons.

The bracelet on his hand burns and flickers with a cold flame, pulses of _nothingness_ negating every last scrap of his once powerful magic. The worst part is that Loki feels empty, as if drained of his life source. Within the deepest corner of his mind, he can still sense the tiny nimbus of golden light shot through with white streaks, the centre of his magic. But now, foul black chains crisscross their way over, restraining and binding his very core. The very thought makes him feel nauseous with pain. Closing his eyes, Loki allows his mind to drift.

A modicum of green light travels through his eyelids, flickering on and off periodically, lifting his head slightly off the floor, Loki cracks open one eye, looking through his eyelashes for the source of the light.

The sapphire ring on his finger is flashing green, gently but constantly growing in luminence.

He sits up immediately, wrenching the ring off his finger and holding it up to the meager light. The Other had given it to him as a communications device for after he was supposed to kill his father. The recent events had caused its existence to completely slip out of his mind until now. For a second, Loki contemplates that the ring could be of use to get him out of the prison. But then he shakes his head. The Other had ordered him to kill Odin, or suffer a painful death. Considering that he had _not_ murdered his father, invoking the ring's power may have some side effects on the etheric shield that holds him in the chamber, but it may reveal his position to The Other and consequently his master. And Loki would rather not be ever forced into a position where he would become acquainted with…_him_.

A shiver runs up Loki's spine, and this time it is not because of the cold.

Clenching his fingers together, he hides the ring in his palm. But it is already glowing so strongly, the light seeps through the gaps in his fingers. Cursing vehemently, Loki twists around and flings the object away, just as he would throw one of his daggers. The ring flips and tumbles in the air, pulsing rapidly like a little heartbeat. At the apex of its flight, it hits the force field surrounding Loki.

The shield lights up with a cerulean radiance, circular waves of azure power rushing outwards across the entire sphere, lighting up Loki's face a mottled blue. The outward flight of energy is so significant that the prince's ears pop with the change in pressure. A noise like a violent wind whips around him, and Loki turns his face away from the site of impact, hands up to protect his head, crouched low against the force of the reaction.

The ring lands back by Loki's feet, thrown back with an insignificant tinkle. A little burnt from the shield, it stutters, but then begins to glow again with a stronger light than ever before.

The pair of guards leap around the corner, alerted by the shield, spears outstretched and at the ready. The glance at Loki, and relax slightly when they see the power field still active and the prince standing quite still in the center. "What was that?" one guard asks the other, in a tone of half-annoyance. "No idea, mate," comes the shrugging reply. Looking slightly exasperated, they grumble something under their breath about pay rises and changing jobs, failing to notice when one of the flickering shadows in the hallway begins to shift and move.

Loki looks up sharply.

One of the guards makes a joke, half turning to return to their post, and the other guard booms out a laugh. The laugh turns into a choked squeal as something slimy and dark wraps around his ankle and drags him into the shadows of an alcove in the passage.

The strangled sounds continue for a moment, and then ominous silence falls.

Brandishing his spear, the other guard gasps in terror, "Show…show yourself!" A coughing rattle emanates from the darkness, and both Loki and the guard recoil. It is a laugh. Whatever it is, it is laughing. The soldier begins to retreat, backing up until he is a hairsbreadth from the shield. His face betrays how much he wants to be on the same side of it as Loki is.

A dented helmet rolls out of the shadows. Shaking, the guard turns to look straight at Loki. "Help, my lord," he begs, "please…" The prince makes no reply, staring intensely at the gaping mouth of the passage, as tense and coiled as a snake. The guard makes a whimpering noise, and then a line of shadows whips outwards and wraps itself tentacle-like around his neck, pulling him forcibly into the hallway. The speed causes his neck to break with a sickening _snap_.

Loki reaches behind him and draws the thin-bladed dagger from the hidden hem in his clothing with a sliding rasp of metal.

(~~~)

Larry had changed jobs, after his rather revelatory experience acting as a guard on the outer wall. Thinking that too many things happen in way too short a time in his last post, and slightly overwhelmed by his two encounters with the prince, Larry had picked a new job in what he thought would be an uneventful area of work.

Larry is now a dungeon guard.

Everything has worked out just fine for him at the moment, for he had simply signed off his name, went to the armoury, got decked out in his new uniform, and off he had went, content, to his dark little corner of the dungeons where there is peace and no stress. Larry is ridiculously happy.

And of course, to ensure that he had a quiet spot underground, he had placed his name for the lower levels, farther away from the surface. He is but two corridors away from the high-security cell that he had heard so much about in his time working at the citadel.

So Larry stands in his allotted alcove, spear upright, back straight, admiring his blurred reflection in the polished stone opposite him across the corridor. He does fancy the extra layers of uniform add something more beefy to his pitifully thin arms. Blinking, he forces himself to concentrate on the job, and spends a grand total of five whole minutes glaring dangerously up and down the corridor, as if he had a personal grudge against the solid stone walls.

Presently, his eyes grow tired from all that pointless staring, and he begins to flex his now "muscular" arms, looking at his reflection appreciatively. He accompanies this ridiculous show with a series of slapdash defense techniques that he had seen in some play or another a few months ago, consequently nearly tripping over his own feet. He does not notice that the flickering torchlight at the far end of the corridor is snuffing out one by one, darkness travelling up the passage with a frightening speed.

Humming a tone-deaf action song, Larry swivels back and forth from foot to foot, swinging his spear in a flailing motion that whacks the back of his helmet. In the ringing that fills his ears afterwards, the soft footsteps approaching behind him are unnoticed. Larry stabs an imaginary foe, overbalances and turns in an ungainly circle to face the other end of the corridor –

And the leering, chalk-white face of The Other is barely an inch from his own.

"GAAAAAAHHH!" Larry screams in fright, his words eloquent as his courage trifling. A tendril of shadow latches itself onto his mouth, gagging him. "Quiet," comes the hissing speech. Something crimson catches the corner of Larry's eyes, and he sees that The Other's hands are drenched with fresh blood, no doubt the blood of the soldiers who stood down the passage.

"Please don't kill me," Larry cries, but with his mouth tied it comes out more like "Mmm dmm imm mm". The Other tilts his head at the fine specimen of Asgardian life. "Go, worthless guard, and bring your king. Tell him…my master wants to make a statement." The shadow gag retracts, flowing into The Other's fingernails, turning them midnight black for the briefest second. Larry falls to his hands and knees, gasping for breath.

The dark, rough cloak passes him in his peripheral vision. The trailing shadows flow over Larry, and his heart flutters in a sudden weakness. Five steps away, The Other stops. "And tell Odin that it would be in his best interests to hurry, that is if he wishes his son to be…capable…of conversing with him."

"Okay, okay," Larry says half to himself, scrambling to his feet in a tangle of arms and legs. As he runs full pelt towards the stairs, he hears a guttural cry of a guard down the next passage, a coughing, rattling laugh, and the splatter of wet liquid on hard ground.

(~~~)

Through arched bridges and elegant halls, a single overdressed guard tears his way past nobility, tradesmen, merchants, and servants. Panting from the effort, he comes to a sliding stop before the heavily barricaded throne room. A dozen soldiers eye him suspiciously, hands tightening on their weapons. When the guard tries to run to the massive double doors, a cloud of weapons point at his face.

"Name, and purpose?" the curt request is from the captain of the guards. "La-Larry," says the guard breathlessly, "and I needs must see the king!" A dozen pairs of eyes narrow. "THERE IS NO TIME!" Larry shouts, eyes watering in desperation, "PRINCE LOKI IS IN TERRIBLE DANGER!" Only now do the soldiers see his prison guard uniform, with the official Asgardian seal. As the soldiers begin to shift back into position and the captain grips the door handle, about to announce him, the double doors are flung open with an almighty crash.

Thor stands with his hands still outstretched, and twenty paces behind him, Odin is halfway off his throne. Gabbling with relief, Larry throws himself by Thor's feet and delivers his fateful message.

Both Odin and Thor's hearts stutter at the news. Without a second thought, Thor is already spinning Mjolnir, his fear for his brother evident in the raging emotions behind his blue eyes. A moment before he is about to fly off, a firm hand grips his wrist. Turning, the prince faces the king.

"What!" he bellows, panic rising in throat.

The king grabs his son's shoulders and gives them a strong shake. "Think, Thor!" Odin says, "Loki is in the most secure cell in all of Asgard. The enemy knows this full well – he must have prepared something to get within the shield. If you arrive, you will not be able to pass through, that is if even my sceptre can pass through. There is evil magic at work." The king paces back and forth, grey head bowed in the velocity of thought. Thor thinks that hidden in his father's step, a dread more terrible than his own resides.

The king stops his pacing. "What we need," he says, "is some way of entering the enclosure without passing though the sphere itself."

Thor tightens his jaw in grim determination. "I can handle that, father."

"I will go and do whatever I can to help Loki. But know that we cannot prevent the enemy from harming him for sure until he is out of that prison. The prison that I put him in." Odin's voice has fallen to but a murmur. Thor grasps Odin's hand, and says quickly, "That will come later. Our priority now is Loki." And with that, he is gone in a flurry of red and blue.

And the king of Asgard runs toward his youngest son.

(~~~)

The Other walks slowly into the light, wiping the blood off his hands with a mass of shadows. Loki stands with the knife held loosely in his right hand by his side, breathing calm and heartbeat steady. He has unknowingly retreated to the very centre of the enclosure. He holds the empty gaze of The Other with an expressionless defiance. As The Other glides forward on his cloak of shadows, Loki turns to follow his movement.

A smile reveals bloody teeth. "Why, greetings, little prince," comes the whispering voice, "are you glad to see me?" Loki does not answer, but his eyes flick to the boundary separating them. "Oh, you must take comfort in that! But do not worry, my master has a good remedy." The darkness in his hand parts to reveal an identical gold ring to the one lying inside the boundary at Loki's feet. Although Loki's magic is bound, he understands, and grows pale with fear. The bracelet on his wrist glows brighter, and he knows that if his magic were free, his hands would be flashing with electricity. As such, they are currently still.

The ring on The Other's hand is pulsing at the same frequency as Loki's, and the oscillating increases until they shine with almost a constant hum of power. Tilting his head, The Other holds his hand up to eye level, and invokes the magic. The two rings explode in greenish light, blinding Loki for the briefest moment. When his vision clears, he sees that a brilliant emerald thread connects the two rings _on either side of the boundary_.

Loki curses, flips the knife into reverse grip, and begins to saw at the bracelet on his wrist. Fortified with magic, the circle of metal refuses to even scuff. The Other begins to move forward, and a pale finger covered in slime touches the surface of the shield. The curve of power stays unreactive. Abandoning the attempt to cut the bracelet apart from the outside, Loki in desperation plunges the knife into the gap between the cuff and his skin. A suppressed cry of pain later, the inside of his wrist drips scarlet, and the bracelet has only a single white scratch on it.

A gauntlet made of shifting shadows begins to extend slowly through the shield, and when The Other sees that the shield has no effect, he steps wholly through. Once he is completely over the boundary, the sphere of energy now glows green, having converted to the energy signature of the rings. Loki faces him, crouched, blade dripping with his own blood, and leaps at The Other before he has a chance to make a move, eyes flashing in a feral glare.

Laughing that horrible noise yet again, The Other dissolves into a cloud of shadows, the stream of darkness flowing _through_ Loki and out of his back. Loki blinks once. It seems like a torrent of ice has just ripped through his heart, stopping him in his tracks. The Other reforms ten paces away, turning just as the prince's knees hit the stone floor.

Loki's vision dims and flickers, and although he gasps air into his lungs, he never seems to have enough to breathe. "What – what did you do…" Loki murmurs, clutching at his heart.

"Oh, do not overexert yourself!" The Other says in a mockery of concern, "It won't kill you. Yet." Loki has somehow kept ahold of his dagger, and now he spins up on one foot, crossing the space separating them in a single bound, but his strength fails mid leap, and the collapses again into a inelegant heap on the floor, cloak crumpled around him.

"Do you want to know what that little trick _does_ do?" The Other asks. Loki raises his head with difficulty. "It is a present from my master, designed specifically for you – " And with that, The Other twists his white fingers in his direction.

And some evil remnant of shadow left within Loki's body spikes and turns razor sharp. Loki barely has time to draw breath before he is screaming as he has never done before, thrashing and rolling on the stone floor, dagger left lying useless next to him. All that he wants is for a moment of respite, for the pain to halt, just a single instant, _please_, _please_ –

A deep, ringing voice rebounds across his consciousness.

The agony lifts, and Loki's eyes open to a blur of tears. As his vision clears, he sees the one person that could offer any comfort in a situation like this.

Odin stands, regal and tall, fury emanating from his very posture. His hand grips his sceptre, and anger reverberates in his voice. Only his eyes betray his intense worry for his youngest son.

"Fa-ther," croaks Loki almost inaudibly, twitching his fingers towards Odin. The Other casually brings a foot writhing with shadows down onto his hand, and Loki cries out once more. Odin jerks forward, an involuntary movement. He looks from his son lying on the ground, then at The Other, and strides forward, wasting no time. As soon as his sceptre touches the green sphere, a blast of frigid energy whams into Odin, and his feet only just find purchase on the ground.

The Other rattles, "Your sceptre is not worthy of my master's magic."

Odin regards The Other with a reserved air, hiding his fear for Loki well. "Declare yourself. Who is your master, and what does he want with Asgard and my son?" He is buying time for Thor to do his work.

The Other clicks and flicks his head, saying, "This brat here? Nothing. He is an incompetent nuisance, and he annoys my master." He gives Loki a vicious dig in the side with his boot – Loki moans, and Odin's knuckles turn white – and The Other continues, "My master wants to be rid of him. As for _Asgard_, he wishes to make a statement, using the young prince here."

Odin stiffens. He can hold his tongue no longer. "You _dare_ to touch my son one more time and I swear you will suffer the worst pain you can ever imagine. I will guarantee that myself," he thunders. His clenched left fist is shaking with anger. Footsteps sound in the hallway, and Thor appears next to his father, face grim and set. Odin and Thor nod at each other briefly, as if acknowledging something hidden.

Sneering, The Other snaps his teeth together a few times in amusement. "The announcement is thus: my master has not shifted one step from his place of residence, and yet he has been able to tricking the _prince_ of Asgard – not crown prince, but prince nonetheless – into aiding his humble servant myself in entering the deepest reaches of the citadel." He gestures at the twin rings on the ground. Thor and Odin remain silent.

The Other leaves Loki and stalks toward the magical boundary. "What's more, my master has manipulated both of you into stripping your brother and son of his only defense, and throwing him into prison by your own accord." Odin's mouth tightens, and his expression is one of intense sorrow.

"And so, Odin and Odinson, if my master is capable of _this_," and he motions at the scene before him with a black-gloved hand, "what can you do to oppose him? Take this as a warning of the chaos is to come."

Thor growls, "A pretty speech, son of shadow. Now let my brother go, and we will spare you your life. Your master's word has been heard. Now go." Mjolnir trembles with curbed electricity. The Other laughs again, saying, "Well, it seems that your dear brother's comments on your intelligence were rather an understatement. To…cement…my master's point, the prince will sadly not survive."

Loki coughs up a mouthful of blood, and tries to shuffle backwards, but in vain. The Other's lips part in a grin, and he continues, "I think you know by now that Loki never really intended to kill you, king of Asgard. Now I ask you to look on as I put an end to his paltry little life." As he speaks, an outgrowth of darkness protrudes from his right index finger, forming a deadly sharp spear of shadow.

In the moment of silence, a weak voice still laced with a twist of irony says, "Goodbye, father. I am sorry." Loki's green eyes are bright with emotion, but they no longer hold any fear. With intense difficulty, he has struggled to his feet – he is determined not to die groveling on the ground. He faces The Other with his head held at a defiant angle, that trademark sardonic smile still gracing his too-pale face. "Well? Are you going to keep me waiting?" he says lightly.

Odin's eyes burn with a fiery pride, amid the pain and sorrow in his heart.

The Other turns and paces slowly towards his prey, the shadowknife gouging a deep track in the solid stone floor. Loki does not react, save to stare with an focused gaze at the bracelet on his wrist. A muffled pulse of energy radiates from the prince, washing over all present in the chamber. Loki takes a shallow breath, and a stronger wave of resistance washes outwards. The bracelet vibrates. As The Other approaches, the throb of deep magic intensifies.

_Thud_. A drop of sweat drips from the tip of Loki's sable hair.

_Thud_. Mjolnir quakes in Thor's hand, and he looks at his brother in wonder.

_Thud._ Even Odin shudders with the concussion.

A pause, and suddenly Loki looks straight into his brother's eyes, breaking out in a macabre smile of victory even as The Other swings the darkness with a frightening speed at the prince's head.

Thor closes his eyes and half turns his head, and The Other interprets this wrongly as that he is unwilling to see his brother die. But what the crown prince is actually doing – he casts out his consciousness to a single room in the hospital wing of the citadel, and thinks authoritatively a single command. _Now._ When Thor's opens his eyes again, he barks out a laugh.

Puzzled, The Other pauses with the shadowknife an inch from Loki's exposed neck.

In his mind, Loki breaks the wall between him and his magic, and sends out a wave of pure destructive force from the core of his power. The chains surrounding his mind snap like brittle twigs, and the bracelet shatters into fine metal dust. A rush of energy flows into Loki's mind, and his stance steadies as his injuries heal.

Simultaneously, a resounding CRACK explodes in a maelstrom of light and wind next to Loki, throwing The Other back into the magical shield of the enclosure. And when the storm of magic falls still, there crouches the ever-loyal Damian, bedraggled and with his leg still wrapped in infirmary bandages. Loki, who has conjured a protective buffer by instinct, is taken aback in surprise.

Damian groans and nearly passes out, but then snaps out a hand and grabs Loki by the ankle. As The Other stirs from his fallen position, Damian snarls in effort and croaks to Loki, "I'm gonna need a proper boost here." A flash of understanding dawns on the prince's features, and he reaches out with his mind and finds the tracker's core of magic. Damian's core is a dense, scorching, violet sphere of glorious light, and Loki envelops it with his own gold and white energy. As The Other sends a tide of shadows towards them, Loki's mind burns golden, and he hears Damian think, _begin_. Loki feels a chasm open in the fabric of space and time, lined with magenta magic, and he laughs even as the feels Damian yank him away by his grip on his ankle.

And they disappear into nothing, the shadows rebounding off the now empty enclosure.

The Other lands on a pad of darkness, and screams his fury in an abominable screech. Snapping his head around, he finds Odin and Thor already gone. Roaring in anger, he slams down his power, deactivating the energy shield with a drone of shadow. He looks up at the vaulted ceiling, and sends ribbons of shadow up into any crack he can find, burning and ripping chunks of stone. As huge boulders thud and ricochet around him, he crouches and springs upwards, supported by a liquid whirlwind of black. The surface via the shortest route – straight up.

(~~~)

The bustling road leading from the northern gate to the citadel structure proper is thronged with a crowd of merchants and servants and nobles and tradesmen. Laughter ripples through small groups of children, who run and flit through gaps in the multitude. Among them is a little boy with white-blonde hair, kicking a football before him. Aidan smiles in inward joy, darting here and there, little feet drumming on the road. It is a while yet before sundown, and he turns to his right to measure the sun's distance from the horizon. Squinting a little, he takes it as two fingers from the skyline. An hour, no more. Ample time to play before mommy expects him home for dinner.

He kicks the ball a little farther away than he wants to, and it rolls into an empty spot in the crowd, just as a group of academics block his view of his toy. Jumping up and down in mild frustration, he has no choice but to wait until they pass. Scanning the ground, his eyes alight on the brown leather ball, and he begins to run towards it. A tremble passes through the air.

A deafening retort booms from a singularity hanging in midair, and two figures appear into existence amid a rush of wind that flings Aidan's football over the tops of the houses. Aidan's blonde head turns to follow its passage, and then snaps back to look at the strange phenomenon, mouth slightly open in wonder and shock.

One man is dressed in a hospital uniform, and his head sags in exhaustion. The other man, dressed in green in gold, is bent over coughing and retching from the dust. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and stands, swaying slightly on his feet. The hospital man – Aidan's young mind has already given him a name – releases the other man's ankle and hands him a bundle of gleaming weapons. The tall man accepts them, and grips the gloved hand of the hospital man in a show of gratitude. He looks around, and his emerald eyes meet Aidan's.

Aidan gasps. It is Loki – the nice but not nice prince. Smiling tiredly in an attempt to appear friendly, Loki supports the hospital man over to Aidan, and says gently, "My friend is hurt, and there will be fighting here soon. Will you take him to the infirmary?" Aidan's small mouth forms the words, "Fighting! Can I fight and be a hero like my mommy said?" Loki's eyes are bright, and he laughs softly, "No, dear little Aidan. Do you not know that helping the injured off the battlefield is heroism in itself?"

Aidan nods quickly, slips under Damian's arm, and totters away with him towards the citadel. Loki examines his weapons, a dozen throwing daggers and his two spare long knives, and sighs. They will have to do. Spinning, he leaps up to the roof of the nearest house, standing on the extended rafters in calm expectation. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Thor and Odin hurry from the citadel entrance toward him. But they will not get here in time, as Loki closes his eyes and feels the telltale rumble of rock and stone beneath his feet.

He slips the twin knives out of their sheaths and holds them loose and ready for the battle ahead, even as the street in front of him explodes into a glorious chaos of shadow.

**The battle begins, the battle begins! WHOOOOP! *****cue extremely inelegant crazy dancing* ****You may have now noticed that I always end my chapters mired in a sort of ecstatic hyperness. See you all in 8 or 9 days, and there WILL be some good action next chapter.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Well, hello there. How's life? The summer holidays are so close that I can taste the freedom…**_**of summer coursework.**_** GAH! I actually think that I will probably work harder in summer than in school, and trust me, I'm **_**working**_** at the moment. Well, there you have it. A ten second complain-fest about my life. On the other hand, you guys are great. I don't know how I would get by without you people :D**

**Reviews:**

**LiesmithLoki: Thank you! Haha, I hope this you like this chappie.**

**johncorn: Yes, poor, poor Larry. He really doesn't deserve it, and his suffering is for my laughing benefit alone. How evil is that? *evil cackle* I do have a tendency to mistreat my OCs. Thanks for reviewing!**

**And I'm all out of bubblegum: Thanks, my cold is all cleared up now, more or less. Here's another chapter on the dot. Hope you like :)**

**Child of Hermes: Thanks for reviewing!**

**Altamiya: Thank you for appreciating Damian, we all know he needs the encouragement, poor sod. I am fully aware of when my fic gets a bit OOC, but then it's always intentional. I thought Loki in Avengers was a bit OOC in itself, since he was such a misunderstood, sweet guy in Thor, and suddenly here he is, exploding things without abandon. So I like Loki in Thor better :) Thank you so much for reviewing, I really hope that you like this chapter!**

**I don't own Avengers, but all OCs are MINE TO TORTURE! Muahahahahah! Onwards with the chappie!**

The sky is ablaze with the fire of the setting sun, and the golden city gleams in all its radiance, resplendent in the glory of its beauty. Darkness hems the eastern curve of the horizon, melding into the orange and crimson palette arcing above. A bird drifts on the rising wind, touching its wings to the slow silence, hanging far above the realm of men and gods. One golden eye sees the edge of night, the other is slitted slightly against the warmth of the sun's rays. A moment of peace.

A sudden spray of sand erupts in front of the bird in a fountain of dust and rock. Squawking indignantly, the bird rotates on the tip of a wing and dives for cover. A distant roar of anger floats upwards, and the sky is no longer a safe haven from the conflicts of men.

(~~~)

A figure clad in gold and green sends out a single thought around him, overwhelming the mental defenses of the magically trained and untrained alike.

_If you value your life, run._

The people of Asgard scatter like frightened ants away from the scene of heaving rock and unstable stone. Loki tightens his hold on his double knives, and glances at the fringe of night. He knows that while the sun still shines, the fight must be won. Once night falls, he who can meld into shadow has the advantage. There will be no time for eking out a battle plan. Every blow must be quick and violent and deadly, if he is to walk out alive.

The shaking ground falls still. Loki narrows his eyes and stares at the center of the cracks in the road. _A ruse? A trick?_ Unwilling to believe that The Other would just stop the attack, the prince sends out a wave of his magic to ascertain the true nature of what is underground. And not a moment too soon, for what Loki senses causes him to throw up a golden shield of power.

A dozen snaking tentacles of shadow rip out of the broken ground, whipping through the structures on both sides of the road. Adrenaline pulses through Loki's heart, and he feels the wooden rafter beneath his feet begin to splinter. He springs upwards, knives flashing, supported by his shield of magic, and spins in midair, descending towards the very centre of the twisting mass of darkness. Loki's eyes flicker with concentration, and he brings his blades down at the emerging hooded face of The Other.

A second before impact, The Other's face splits into a bloody grin, even as the nearest tentacle reverses direction and slams Loki out of the air with a sickening _crunch_. Loki hardly has time to take a breath before he tumbles onto hard stone, grazing his wrist and his head hitting the ground painfully. His vision turns red and white.

Snarling with effort, he flips back on his feet. A thin trail of blood runs from the corner of his mouth, for he has bitten his tongue. It is wiped away with barely a thought, staining a sleeve bright red. Rotating the knives once, as if testing their strength, he faces The Other, who stands tall on a mountain of shadow leaking from his fingertips and cloak.

Loki smiles suddenly, and while The Other tilts his head in surprise, a small dagger has already left the prince's hand in a whiplike motion, humming intensely towards where The Other's heart would be. The knives are still in Loki's hand – the dagger was thrown with but two fingers.

The Other dissolves into molten shadow, and the dagger passes through harmlessly, clattering on the street behind. Loki's grin becomes ever so slightly strained. He shifts his weight onto his front foot, and then he is sprinting at The Other, straight into a seething hell of darkness.

As he ducks and weaves in an elaborate dance, blades gleaming with a deadly light, Loki desperately tries to think of a way to defeat an enemy that is inherently insubstantial. For every time his daggers touch a wisp of shadow, it snakes and gives way, only to form sharp spikes behind him. He is not so much defending himself with his twin knives than leaping and twisting away from each deadly point. It is his dexterity, grace and the speed lent to him by magic that is currently preventing him from injury, not his weapons themselves. Sooner or later something had to give, he would misstep, or slip, or make an insufficient turn –

No sooner had this thought entered his mind, a razor of shadow so thin that only the glancing light of the setting sun alerted him to its presence slips past his guard and slices a long, deep cut on his cheekbone. He feels warm liquid drip onto his face, is momentarily distracted, and is almost cut in half by and incoming flow of black.

Cursing, Loki decides that close-quarters fighting in such a situation is not the best tactic whether with or without magic, and tries to retreat into the open. As if reading his thoughts, the shadows shift into a cylindrical funnel that whips his hair into his eyes and causes him to choke as the air is drawn thin by its velocity. Gasping for breath, he hears the rattling laughter of The Other flicker on his left – no, the right – and behind him, building in volume, scathing and scornful.

Eyes watering, Loki sheathes his knives and falls to his knees. The laughter peaks in supposed victory. But then the prince murmurs a single word, his magic flaring in response, the white sphere of power within lancing down to his fingertips.

And Loki slaps the ground with the flat of his palms, sending out a wave of golden light tearing though the darkness, ripping a gap in the shadow. Without pausing for a moment, he pushes off the ground with his magic and rolls through the break to the speck of daylight beyond. As he clears the wall of black, Loki draws a blade with a flowing motion and slows his uncontrolled tumble with the metal tip, sending out a shower of sparks as it meets the ground. His feet brace in a curve of dust, cloak flying about his ankles. The cut on his cheek drips crimson on the cobblestones.

Breathing heavy, Loki flings up a shield just in time to dissipate the thrust of darkness directed at his face. He overbalances and lands on his elbow. He hisses in pain, and glares at his adversary as rapiers of darkness grow out of the white fingers of The Other.

A pause, and the two opponents regard each other. Loki looks outwardly assured, but that is more for show than anything else. But then he realises something immensely significant to the outcome of the battle. The Other has been ordered to kill him at any cost, and that means that he cannot leave without Loki dead or dying, or else face the terror of his master's wrath.

Loki looks for signs of stress in The Other's posture, and sure enough, there is a lack of calm in his stance. The Other had been planning to fight a imprisoned, magically-bound prince, and here he is, facing a fully-armed Loki with power coursing though his mind. Fear and impatience can be the deciding factor in a fight such as this.

The prince, knowing this, twirls his knife carelessly, and says in an insulting voice lined with velvet, "Why, the servant will soon have to face his master? I wonder what the master will do when he discovers your task unfulfilled." The Other snarls and recoils, shadows whipping in strain. Loki continues in his cutting tones, pacing evenly in a slight curve, "What will you do then? Someone once said to me, _You think you know what _pain_ is?_ Well, I ask you, do you?" He laughs lightly, and The Other flinches as if stung by a whip. But within Loki's taunting expression, he is tense and ready for the attack that must come. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he senses two familiar minds running towards him from behind The Other. And as he performs a mocking half-bow, The Other roars in fury and surges towards him, flying on a whip of darkness.

Loki stands as still and calm as the sea on a moonless night, a faint smile touching his features, eyes glimmering with silent satisfaction.

Seventy feet. Fifty feet. Thirty feet.

And still the prince makes no move against the living wall of black.

As the shadows loom and blot out the rays of the sun, a deafening _CRACK_ resounds down the street, and The Other is immobilized in crackling threads of glorious blue light. He screams, a raw, animal-like sound, as the lightning twists and binds the shadow.

Only now does Loki move, darting forward, his teeth bared in a feral grin, twin blades slashing in terrible sweeps, the air sparking and vibrating with electricity that singes the tips of his hair and bathes his face with an eerie radiance, cloak sending out arcs of magic, rending huge swathes of darkness that no longer fade and evade. Clumps and solid masses of shadow shatter and break apart at his feet, which are stepping with the elegance and grace of a dancer. As he rains down streaks of polished silver, he draws near the boundary of dark and light, and at the very last moment, trips over a low-lying streak of electricity and sprawls into sunlight by a pair of booted feet.

Laughing partly from exhilaration and partly from exhaustion, Loki looks up at the sky through his eyelashes, knife gesturing at the general area of space above him and saying, "How _nice_ of you to join me, brother!" He waves his blade around in an attempt to find Thor and is rewarded by an indignant shout from behind his head. Still smothering chuckles, Loki rolls over and accepts the rough hand offered for his support, climbing to his feet. He comes face to face with the grave face of his father, his grin slipping away into nothing. Thor ends Mjolnir's strike with a flick of his hand. Odin checks the cut on his son's cheek with a father's concern. Loki turns away from his touch.

Odin is silent for a second, and then says, "We will talk later. But in the meantime, my sons," and here he turns also to Thor, "You have underestimated your opponent." And his hand grips his staff in preparation. Groaning slightly, Loki turns his head at the misshapen mound of shadow that used to be The Other.

It is bubbling.

Thor and Loki glance at each other, and in unspoken consent take their place on opposite sides of the puddle of black. Odin takes his position also, albeit a father distance away. Loki inspects the inky darkness in front of him with an expression of distaste. Slowly, a humanoid shape rises from the pool, slick as tar and dripping oily darkness. It has no discernable features, and it jerks and stutters as if a puppet on strings.

Odin takes a step forward. The figure has no eyes, no ears, no mouth. When it draws to its full height, it turns its head to face Loki. The prince feels a shiver pass down his spine, and flings a dagger at it. The dribbling darkness folds around the knife and spits it with blinding velocity back at Loki, whose eyes widen in surprise. He swivels on his feet, arms out for balance, in an attempt to dodge the incoming blade. Thor shouts a warning, too late. The dagger draws a cut on Loki's hand, causing him to gasp in shock, mirroring the red line on his cheek.

Loki stares at the _thing_ before him in an air of profound revelation. He realises that even though his brother and father are with him, the odds have not tipped in his favour by as much as he would have hoped. A wide gap splits the figure's face, like a rift hacked by a rough-hewn rock. It is smiling.

Loki hears Thor bite off a curse.

And Loki makes a decision. He shifts his stance on the ground, and lifts his hands before him, frowning in concentration. Across the square, Mjolnir shivers in response, and Thor marvels at his brother's intention. Beads of sweat break out on Loki's brow, and his slowly, ever so slowly, begins to raise his hands, ad they shake and tremble in suppressed power. Around them, the earthen walls of the houses crack, and lines run through the cobbled stone ground.

Loki feels the thrum of his magic seep through layers of earth, pebbles and rock and silt and sand. The black figure looks around, but then turns back to face Loki again. It bends at the knee, seeming to prepare to spring forward. A macabre grin adorns Loki's face, and his mind fill with a blank whiteness as he knows that his control over his surroundings is complete.

His eyes flick to his father, then Thor – and he sweeps down low, drawing a perfect circle on the ground with the tip of one toe, hair flying, magic gaining momentum. As he comes back up again, his arms are flung wide, wind rushing past his ears, and every particle of sand in the surrounding vicinity rushes up in a massive cloud of brick red dust. In half a second, the square is a sandstorm of dirt.

Silence.

(~~~)

The main gates of the central citadel structure loom ahead of the tiny boy, who is struggling under the weight of the wounded tracker, laboring ever closer to the hospital ward. Aidan's breaths come in little injured gasps as his small lungs struggle to cope, but his blue eyes blaze in determination. Damian, exhausted though he his, offers a reassuring smile to the child. Aidan mistakes this pained grimace for impatience, and quickly says, "Don't worry, mister. We'll get there soon."

Damian senses something behind him, and his hand clenches tight on Aidan's shoulder. "Wait," he chokes, and, ignoring the pain in his leg, twists around to settle his keen eyes on the distant point where he knows the princes and his king are at battle. He is alarmed to see the cloud of smoke and dust drifting in a column upwards, and he knows that time is running out. He bites back a curse as he realises his mistake, what he has overlooked because of the distraction of his wounds. "Child," he says, and turns Aidan gently to face him, seeing the confusion in his round face. "I need you to do a very brave thing. Can you do this for me?" Damian asks in a tone of quiet urgency.

"I'll try my best, sir," comes the quivering reply. Damian heaves himself off Aidan's shoulder and places his full weight on the ground. "Little man, I need you to run to the captain of the guard, and bid him to send out his best men to aid the princes and the king. He will be already aware of the disturbance. You will have to tell him exactly what is happening and bid him, for heaven's sake, to _hurry_. Do you understand?" Damian's face is drawn and grey. "And take this for proof of your information. Tell him that Damian sent you." He hands over his wristband of sculpted leather, carved with the symbol of the Asgardian guild of trackers.

"Yes," Aidan says simply. Damian smiles, and says, "Now run like the wind, little child." And Aidan is away, fleet-footed. The tracker rests his head on the cold stone of the road, utterly spent.

(~~~)

The captain of the guard is pacing back and forth in the main hall of the citadel, displaying an unusual amount of irritation compared to his normally calm demeanor. The king and Thor have disappeared to who knows where, and there are reports of an incident of some sort occurring on the northern road. The captain snorts in disgust. He knows that whatever has occupied Thor and Odin's attention must be hugely significant, but he does not know _what_. And therein lies the problem. How is he supposed to do his job if he is kept in the dark about such events of importance?

He taps the pommel of his sword with a fingernail, matching the continuous sound of his feet. A clattering of boots resound up the hallway, and he turns his head to see ten soldiers hurrying toward him. There seems to be someone small in the midst of them. As the guards slide to a stop in front of him, the captain raises an eyebrow.

"Sir…" his second in command ventures. "Well?" the captain snaps, hand on the hilt of his longsword and armour twirling about his knees. "Um, sir, this boy here claims to have a message from Damian, the master tracker." He stands to one side, and a dirtied face peeks out into view, blonde hair slick with sweat.

The captain takes one look at the wristband that Aidan holds in his hands and nods his assent. The little boy opens his mouth, and says clearly in his high voice, "The dust on the northern road is caused by the princes and the king fighting an evil enemy. You are to send support quickly. Bad things will happen if you don't." His words, though childish, are delivered with all the force of a battle order. The captain is momentarily taken aback.

Aidan looks at him defiantly. "Now!" he insists, his voice rising to a wail of frustration. A single tear leaks out of one eye, and a little hand brushes it away with unnecessary force. _Be brave._ His blue eyes nonetheless begin to grow wet. Aidan's yell seems to jerk the captain into reality, and he shouts the order. As his men march past him in a rhythm of metal, the captain spares half a glance for the boy. "You've done a good job, child," he finds himself saying, "You should be proud." Aidan's face breaks out in a tired grin, but not before he adds, "Master Damian is hurt and on the northern road. Can you send someone to help him?"

The captain nods once, and strides to his horse.

Aidan is alone in the arching hallway, face mirrored in the perfect marble floor.

(~~~)

The world is red and orange, with indistinct flickerings of dark shadows.

Loki steals silently through the dust cloud, hardly breathing, eyes half-closed, sensing rather than seeing the space around him. He knows Thor is on his left, and Odin on his right. That makes The Other straight onward. He sees a lumbering figure ahead, and extends a hand as fast as a snakestrike.

Thor swings Mjolnir in a panicked hit to Loki's head, which Loki easily deflects with the jeweled hit of his knife. Loki smiles knowingly, and puts a finger to his lips. His brother nods. Loki's elegant fingers twirl in a complicated series of gestures, motioning their battle plan. Thor nods again, and moves off into the dust. He cannot be seen after barely a pace away. Loki closes his eyes and waits.

Thudding footsteps rebound from the opposite side of the sphere. Loki tilts his head, and makes no move. Now light padding footsteps accompany the heavy ones, varying in rhythm. He knows that Thor is imitating both their walks, his own with his boot, Loki's with the palm of his hand. With barely a whisper, he melds swiftly forward, Thor's distraction covering the sound of his movement.

Loki sees a dark shape appear out of the mist, and deals it a glancing blow with his left hand. He is grimly satisfied when he feels the blade drag against a solid object, biting deep. Rolling to a stop, he waits until he hears Thor's footsteps, this time on the opposite side, before he again rushes towards his foe. His theory is correct – if The Other cannot anticipate attacks, there is also no way for him to turn himself immaterial against it.

Loki makes his second pass, this time approaching The Other with his right hand knife extended. His magic lends him an extreme speed, and he rotates his right hand to expose the maximum cutting edge of the blade. He sees the black figure before him –

And an icy hand grips his wrist, wrenching it terribly. Loki gasps, eyes wide. A plaster-white face drifts into his vision. The Other has regained his full form, and Loki blanches at the disgusting smell of rotten flesh drifting from the back of The Other's head. In a haze of pain, his mind blearily thinks, _Ah. So that is why he is always hooded._

The Other cackles, and throws Loki bodily outwards, putting all of the prince's weight on his wrist. Loki is tossed like a rag doll out of the dust, wrist burning with agony.

(~~~)

The drumming hooves of approaching horses are the only stirring on the still street. As the soldiers reach the boundary between clear air and dust, their horses, normally trained battle-steeds unafraid, rear and bolt in the opposite direction. The orderly ranks degenerate into a rolling sea of confusion and metal, as the guards holler and yell at their animals in indignant protest.

As the captain of the guard reaches the scene, he demands an explanation. His second in command reins in next to him, one hand righting his askew helm, gasping, "The horses sense something amiss, sir. There is something unholy and…_wrong_ in that cloud, sir." The captain regards the unknown dust with a curious expression. Then he says under his breath, "Surround it. Form a line."

A clatter of hooves later, the entire force of the soldiers have formed a circular wall thirty paces on all sides from the whirling sand. The captain of the guard clears his throat. "One!" he cries, and as one, the soldiers urge their horses forward a pace. "Two!" swords are drawn as the horses advance, and from above, the soldiers look like a glittering forest of blades.

The captain prepares his third command, a slight vibration shivers outward from the cloud of dust. He pauses, uncertain.

A tumbling ball of green and gold is hurled out of the nimbus of sand, flying through the air. It lands, skidding on the stone street, unfolding itself to reveal Loki, hair matted with sweat and blood, eyes burning with an unearthly fire, a slight limp in one foot. As he comes to a controlled stop right in front of the startled soldiers, the captain is alarmed at the prince's current state.

"My lord," he stammers, "Are you well?" Loki, whose wrist is dripping a continuous stream of crimson, transfers his long knife into his left hand. His right hangs useless. At the captain's question, he gives him a sidelong glance, and the soldier recoils at what he sees in that face. Loki says quietly, cultured as ever, "My _dear_ captain. If you can help, please do. If not, _do not interfere_." The last few words ring across the entire assembly of soldiers. Then with a burst of magic, he rises on a pinnacle of golden light, freefalling towards the sand below.

As the reddish darkness once again envelops him, Loki knows that time is running out. The sun is nearly touching the horizon, and the evening star can be seen rising from the blue arc of the skies. Loki braces his feet firmly against the ground, and his hands gesture in rapid, flowing movements. With a shudder of movement, the entire dust cloud begins to spin like a top, narrowing into a funnel of orange dirt. To his left, Thor stumbles out of the cloud, choking on the dust, and to his right, Odin stands serene. With a flip of his fingers, Loki sends the storm of rough sand into a howling, ripping whirlwind that loops through where The Other should be. The soldiers shuffle back in fear, for they know at that velocity, the dust in the air may as well be sandpaper rubbed into skin.

Loki grows tired, and his injuries take a toll on his strength. The wind begins to die, and he gives Thor a pointed look. _Well? What are you waiting for?_ Thor grimaces and wipes the grime off his eyelids, Mjolnir crackling with electricity. As he shifts backwards, preparing for a strike, Loki tightens his grip and forces the sand into an ever-denser sphere, trapping their enemy within. Thor spins Mjolnir once, and grits his teeth as the air between them is lit up a brilliant sapphire. Loki's hands shake with the effort needed to keep the magic together, but he perseveres nonetheless.

A few seconds later, it is over. The cloud of sand has fused in some places into black clumps of glass, a product of the blazing heat of Mjolnir's electricity. Loki merely lets his hands drop, and the wind blows the rest of the dust away down the street. As one, Odin and his sons turn to what they believe will be The Other's charred carcass –

There is none. There is nothing but stone street underneath. Thor glances around them, eyes narrowed. Loki again sends his magic down into the earth, and he whips around to Thor, shouting a warning. Loki skates toward him on a trail of golden fire, but not before the soldiers cry out in terror, as the street heaves itself up into black chaos, flinging men and horses out of the way, channeling a path straight toward Thor.

Mjolnir is sparking again, but the electricity seems to have no effect on the incoming tide of darkness. A moment before it reaches Thor, Loki slams into his brother from the side and knocks him stumbling out of the way. The shadows graze Loki's cloak, cutting long rends in the fabric. Loki hisses in subdued pain as he lands on his injured wrist.

The darkness folds on itself and ripples, growing in size and height until The Other stands tall as he did before. The black chasms that are his eyes bore into the green of Loki's. The Other opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by a booming retort so loud that the very stones shiver with untold force.

Odin stands, staff driven into the ground before him, a cold, dark fury in his features. "Enough," he intones, and though his voice is not loud, the raw authority within is unquestionable. "You have threatened Asgard, injured my son," and here he looks at Loki, who is cradling one hand with the other, "and this is unforgivable. You have proven a greater adversary than my sons could handle, even together, but know this – you will not leave this encounter alive." The Other laughs, although there are traces of unease in his tone.

Without any pomp or circumstance, Odin brings Gungir forward and levels the tip at The Other, who balks slightly. There is a pause, as The Other seems to dither between running and holding his ground, for he has no true knowledge of the extent of Odin's power. And then a massive light springs from Gungir, far more intense than anything Mjolnir could ever produce, so bright that Loki casts one sleeve over his eyes in vain attempt to block out the pure white. A shriek emanates from where The Other is, as the blackness swallows the beam whole.

Odin cuts off the stream of power, bringing Gungir lightly to the ground. The Other seems unaffected for a moment, but then begins to shudder violently. Cracks appear in the Other's blank white face, and the shadows shiver and curl as if trembling from a disease. The Other chokes and coughs, the blackness boiling and warping, jerking in huge arcs of uncontrolled liquid. Huge fissures open in the tentacles, bleeding out whiteness that evaporates into smoke at it touches the ground. The Other suddenly looks up, straight at Odin, and breathes one, last rasping breath. "My master will come." And then a soft white light glows inside him, expanding until it shines like the sun at midday. The darkness melts away like dissolving butter.

Even before the white light dies, Loki finally allows his muscles to relax, and suddenly feels completely for the first time the true extent of his physical and mental exhaustion. The long knife in his left hand drops to the ground, and he crumples to a sitting position, his head in his shaking hands.

And a single black shadowblade laced with a violet substance emerges from the dying white as it fades into nothing, flying straight for him.

Some leftover wary part of his mind goes on alert, and he raises bleary eyes to see his death approaching at an unstoppable speed. He has no time to be afraid. He as no time to even make a single noise. He just watches the black blade with a weary resignation, with a heart that is so tired, so tired, from beating. Sitting on the ground, he has no chance to dodge the knife. His father is too far away to help. One side of his mouth twitches upwards in amusement. He does not close his eyes.

A flash of red appears before him, and his befuddled mind blankly thinks something childish – _Oh. Is this what death is like?_

But he is still breathing. How strange.

He looks up. His brother smiles down at him. Loki's expression is confused. What is there to smile about?

Thor takes a shaking breath, and crumples to the ground, the gentle look in his eyes he reserves for his younger brother remaining on his strong, kind face.

Loki thinks, mind only beginning to process what had happened.

_He took the blade for me?_

***Author dodges a barrage of Loki-themed memorabilia aimed at her head* Please don't hate me! I knew it was a cliffie but I had to stop it there. You don't mind, do you? AND I WILL UPDATE ON TIME, so you will definitely know what happens next in 8 or 9 days :D**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello. One little caveat – brace for a very long author's note, mainly due to the overwhelming love all of you have for a certain blonde-haired blue-eyed Asgardian prince. So, speaking of Thor, I rewatched the movie of the same name on a whim because it was showing on HBO. And just saying, I had forgotten how much less…**_**gelled hair tips**_** Hiddles was in that movie. Wow that movie is good. Wow Loki is brilliant. "God of Misunderstood Pain" indeed!**

**Reviews:**

**TheFreedomSock: Why, thank you! Yes, I was a bit evil, but the fun is in the evil, isn't it? A green-eyed dapper Asgardian would certainly agree. As to Thor's condition, well, read on and you shall see :)**

**johncorn: Short and to the point, as always! :D Thank you so much for reviewing!**

**BabyOreo: Great screen name, and thank you so much! I'm really glad that you like it, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**Robyn: Updates on the clock, to make up for it :P Thanks, and I hope you like this chappie!**

**PenNameless1994: So do I, so do I! Sass is a byword for him :) **

**Child of Hermes: Here is the long awaited chapter, and I hope you enjoy!**

**LiesmithLoki: The boys needed to do something sacrificial for one another. I enjoyed writing it far too much for my own good :) Thanks!**

**The Pearl Maiden: Your review made me laugh out loud, thank you! Are you okay? You sounded like you were going through stages of heart failure XD In all seriousness though, thank you so much!**

**Altamiya: Mind control! Nice one…quite possible, Muahahaha. Oh, and about Thor, *evil laugh* whether he shall be fine you will find out. Thanks for the review!**

**ninjaloki: Love Loki :D And you did everything possible to show your support for this fic, thank you! *hugs***

**Right. Don't own the Avengers, do own OCs. Now let's get on with the chapter!**

Night arrives swiftly, nearly stepping on the coattails of hastily departing Day. As Day walks out of the arched doorway of heaven, he seems to pause, and look over his shoulder, face shining with crimson glory, turning his bright eyes on the world of men. Night dips her head serenely, stars shining like diamonds in her sable hair, aloof to the pain and sufferings of those at their feet, so miniscule and insignificant they are.

And so it is in the glare of the setting sun that Loki sits, harrowed to the core, the light bathing his hands in red, as if saying – _there lies your brother's blood_ – darkness adorning the back of his head, beckoning him towards the heedless world of sleep, death, whatever it may be to rouse him from this nightmare dream.

_No. No no no no…_

In the moment directly after the attack, when soldier and king are frozen in a sort of electrified shock, Loki reaches out with a trembling hand towards his brother's shoulder, terrified of what he may see if he turns him over to expose that kind, gentle face.

His fingers are but a hairsbreadth away from Thor's arm when gauntleted, rough hands grasp his shoulders firmly and tear him away from his brother, dragging him none too gently to a small distance away. Loki offers no resistance, as his heart hammers a slow, heavy beat of fear and shame. Others, including Odin, rush forward as one to Thor's side, the king ripping off his helm and falling to his knees next to his son. A physician down the street detaches himself from the doorstep of his house and sprints forward, medicine chest rattling.

Loki attempts to return to Thor from where he was just deposited, willing his hand, then his foot to move. But a restraining hand stops him, and he raises his eyes to see the physician's apprentice methodically checking his wounds, working without a word partly because of nervousness and partly because of the extent of his injuries.

The apprentice is rattling off a long list of things he requires to the soldiers, including cloth rags for binding and hot water from one of the houses. One or two of the guards slip away to get what is needed. The apprentice continues examining Loki, whose eyes remain fixed on the indistinct heap that is his brother, and his father, guards, and physician crowding around, making a jumbled wave of confused noise. He notices that Odin is gripping Thor's hand tightly.

The apprentice eyes flick to Loki's wrist, and without asking permission – for he is intelligent enough to see that the prince is beyond formalities – he extends a hand, holding Loki's up to the light to better ascertain the laceration and bruising.

Only now does Loki turn away from the happenings, drawing a surprised choke of air at the apprentice's touch. "It's…it's okay," stammers the boy, voice not yet completely broken, "But if you ever want to throw a dagger again, you have to let me see…my lord." The last two words are tagged on as an afterthought.

At that moment, Loki's sharp ears hear the physician tending to Thor say as clear as day, "He's still alive. " Odin bends closer to whisper something to him. "The dagger did not penetrate far," the physician replies, "but it was poisoned. I – I do not know…" The physician shakes his head violently, face pale and slick with sweat as he desperately tries to figure out a cure.

Loki suddenly tries to get on his feet, saying nothing in an attempt to conserve his strength. But he is foiled yet again by the apprentice, this time aided by two guards when the apprentice says, "Restrain him! He is in no condition to move." Loki turns toward the apprentice, and says in a low, controlled voice, "Tell your master the poison is Azariel. Tell him!"

The boy gapes for a moment, and then runs to his master, chattering quickly. Odin bends further over Thor, as if being closer to his son would somehow physically keep the effects of the poison at bay. The doctor shudders at the news. "_Azariel?_" he exclaims. He gives Loki a wary glance across the square. "Is there an antidote?" Odin asks quickly, hand stroking Thor's brow. "Yes, my lord," he says, and Odin looks up at this. But as the doctor rifles in his medicine bag for the necessary ingredients, the apprentice methodically taking out pieces of glassware for the mixing process, Thor suddenly gives a rigid cry, breaking his silence.

Odin sobs in tandem at the sound of his son's pain, leaving all pretenses of kingly calm behind. The doctor begins to decant and mix different liquids and powders from his bag, hands shaking slightly from the stress. But even as he begins to swirl the ingredients together, Thor's moans intensify. Odin clenches his teeth and murmurs, "Hurry."

The doctor throws up his hands in despair. "There is not any _time_, sire! The poison must be a quick-acting variety. There is nothing I can do if the antidote solution has no time to settle! I need five minutes. The prince…he has but three, by the looks of it." At Odin's anguished look, the doctor adds, "I am sorry, sire." The antidote bubbles quietly behind him.

Odin whispers brokenly, "But my son…" He is trembling now, weighed down with sorrow and loss. The guards look away, as if the sight of their proud king reduced as so is something private and embarrassing.

Thor's breaths are sporadic now. Loki can only barely hear them from across the square. He is looking at the scene before him with a strange expression on his face. It is a curious mix of fear, confusion, pain, and…guilt, for he knows that Thor is dying because he tried to save _him_. The younger brother who had betrayed them all, tried to destroy a world and lied about their father's condition. Yet Thor had willingly done what had to be done.

Thor's last look of care and relief at his brother's safety at his own expense is seared as if with burning irons into Loki's mind.

_What do I want?_

The question that he had asked himself what seemed like an eternity ago, when he faced The Other and considered killing his father reverberates within him.

Loki's face is an impenetrable mask as he gathers the last of his strength and orders the guards, "Release me. Now." Uncertain, the soldiers let go, as Loki hobbles to his feet. He walks in a dreamlike state towards his brother and father, and for an instant it is as if he was not injured, and he treads with graceful steps.

His bloodied hands push the outlying guards out of the way, and he kneels on the ground next to Odin and Thor, wounds hitching his movement. Thor is pale green, eyes shuttered and fluttering against the poison. Odin raises his tear-stained face – the first time Loki has ever seen his father cry – and whispers, "Loki, Loki, have you come to say goodbye?" There is no more anger in those eyes of stormy grey. There is no room for that anymore.

Loki does not answer, but only smiles and nods, taking Thor's other hand in his own. Odin lowers his head again, thinking that his son's last moments are here.

But then Loki closes his eyes, and some infinitesimal spark of magic within him latches onto the poison in Thor's blood. Loki twitches and judders as the satin beads of black travel into his fingertips, appearing as little spots of darkness worming up his fingernails.

Odin realises something is amiss, and says in alarm, "My son, what are you doing?"

Loki takes all he can – he estimates about half of the poison – and then allows Thor's hand to drop onto the stone. He laughs, a slightly unhinged sound, and crumples onto his father's shoulder, lips turning blue. A bit of colour returns to Thor's skin, although he remains unconscious.

"Doctor," Loki says, eyes glimmering, "Now you have twice the time. Hurry, if you please."

Odin's aged voice says in denial, "No." His grief-stricken face is deepened with even more pain. "Both of you! No!" he cries, seeming weary and grey, an old man where all his worldly treasures lie in his legacy, his two beloved sons. One in danger and dying is torture enough. With what Loki had just done, now both are suffering, and _all_ of Odin's life, for his life is in both his sons, is now slipping out of his grasp.

Odin is between Thor, whose hand he holds tightly, and Loki, who he supports with an arm. He looks from one to the other, torn between the two, feeling like his heart is being roughly ripped apart.

He is ironically reminded of the days from millennia ago, when Thor and Loki would demand a nighttime story, and their father would rumble a laugh and sit between them. Thor would lie staring at the ceiling, only to bounce up in excitement when the stories reached the most dangerous part, as if Odin's words spun whirling figures and clashing swords in the still air. Loki, darker and quieter, would say much less than his brother, but would sit right next to his father, dark eyes gleaming. And Odin would know that in their own separate ways, each loved the story and the father who told it.

Loki would always fall asleep on his father's shoulder.

And now, Loki is so, so pale. Odin wishes with all his soul that those eyes would never close. And Thor, lying so still on the ground, is not going to chatter and sit up at his father's word. It is as if fate is mocking the king, arranging his sons' end with a taunting nostalgia.

Loki feels the poison black inside him, seeping into his blood. Strangely, it does not pain him, possibly because of his strong magic. It just makes him numb, and tired. Tired enough to want to stop breathing, because even that is too difficult. He has to keep reminding himself to bring air into his lungs, but his mind is turning into a peaceful, fuzzy nothingness. His father's tears are dripping into his limp hand, and he wonders at the clear liquid pooled in his palm.

"Nearly, nearly," mutters the physician, glancing upwards through his half-moon glasses, twirling the antidote mixture between his instruments.

But Loki knows it is not enough. They have seconds left. Thor makes no sound now, and could be mistaken for dead if not for the faint, stuttering pulse in his wrist. Loki coughs up a sudden burst of blood, and he marvels at the colour when everything else is turning an odd shade of black and white.

He looks into Odin's agonized face, and he worries, not for himself, but for his father's wellbeing. He dimly considers whether Odin will survive the loss. And a tiny residual tendril of his magic sparks in fear between his fingers, fingers that suddenly regain some feeling.

He knows what he must do.

"Forgive me, father." The words slip out, barely audible. Odin has no time to answer, before Loki lunges across, slaps a hand onto Thor's forehead, and drags the violet Azariel left in his brother's system into himself, leaving his brother's aura clean, and his own gold and white tainted with inky black.

Thor breathes deep, eyes flickering open in a daze.

Odin shouts, reaching out too late to stop his youngest son.

Loki throws himself away from his father and brother, rolling to a stop in the middle of a patch of stone.

He delves into the core of his magic and finds what has always been there, the glorious power that was once hidden but was activated by Mjolnir's power that day on the citadel outer wall.

The youngest prince of Asgard shines with an unbearable light as electricity dances in a wildfire, stone cracking with the strain, a sound like charged air but yet musical in timbre resounding through the space surrounding him, singing of what power is yet to come. Odin shields Thor, covering his eyes against the glare.

The magic forms a crackling dome of deadly sapphire, as lightning resonates in great arcs from Loki, ranging from blinding flashes of power to minuscule vines that pop and snap.

Loki's mind is burning, burning. The light is sanctifying to the touch, but it is so devastatingly, magnificently _white_ that he is not quite sure he can withstand its strength. The Azariel recoils, tearing a path through him away from his magic, screaming.

Loki wills his magic to flood his very being, and the Azariel is forced down his left arm, turning his forearm black with concentrated poison.

The power intensifies, and so does the lightning, until every last drop of Azariel resides in the little finger of his left hand. Loki tries to push the poison out, but no matter how brilliant the magic glows, and how dark his fingernail turns, not a drop of Azariel drips out of him.

Loki is finding it hard to breathe for the ozone now. The crackle of energy begins to fade. Moments later, his magic would die, and so would he, as the poison would flow again into his blood. And somehow, Loki looks up at this second, and thinks he sees a vision of his father standing impossibly next to him, Gungir held uplifted.

He smiles like he once did long ago, when listening to his father tell a story.

And Loki's mind fades to dark dreams.

(~~~)

Damian is currently in a peculiar sort of exasperation mixed with a sprinkle of gratitude. A soldier had found him lying in the middle of the street and dragged him back to the citadel on a very uncomfortable horse ride, considering that he was incapable of sitting up and had to be draped over the saddle with the tough stitching digging into his gut, feeling like he was going to puke with the rhythm of the hoof beats.

Afterwards, he had been helped by the soldier to the healing ward, half-dazed. The head nurse had turned to him with a squeal of criticism, eyebrows slanted in a fierce V of disapproval. He groaned inwardly, and the soldier left – why, he didn't even know his name, how would he thank him later? – but then the nurse had merely clicked her tongue, and a dozen healers had swamped him and dumped him on a hospital bed, covering the white sheets with dust and dirt.

One of the younger ones had been ordered to force-feed him orange juice, while the head physician was summoned immediately. Meanwhile, all the other nurses had given him glances of admiration, and little twitters of conversation where words like "_so_ brave!" and "hero!" drift unwelcomingly to Damian's ears.

By the time the head physician had arrived and ordered them all back to their posts, Damian had descended into a miniature cesspool of mild annoyance. The physician is a kindly man with sable hair shot through with streaks of grey tied back from his face, blue eyes sparkling with wisdom and wit.

But as he approaches Damian's bedside and the girl with the orange juice bows and takes her leave, he looks about as severe as Damian has ever seen him.

"Damian, dear fellow, _what in heaven's name have you been doing to yourself?_" he does not raise his voice, but that tone has caused many a hardened soldier to cringe before. "Avarin," Damian croaks, "how…nice to see you again." Physician Avarin clips tightly, "Yes. Two trips to the hospital ward in two days." Damian laughs past the pain spiking in his injuries, and returns, "Serving my king. Didn't really have a proper choice."

"Nevertheless," Avarin says, beginning to check over Damian's injuries, "I do not heal just to allow buffoons to go out and do themselves harm all over again." But there is a hidden twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

Damian lies still and tries not to bite his tongue off as the master physician pokes the day-old cut on his leg. He releases a pent-up breath as Avarin finishes. Avarin gestures, a nurse runs forward with water, and he washes his hands clean. As he does this, he says, "Well, master tracker, you have of course ripped out all my delicate stitching," and here the patient winces, "but it is not infected, which is a miracle considering what you look like you have been doing – what, rolling in dust after a overuse of magic?" He raises an eyebrow.

Damian coughs self-consciously. "Um…more or less," he says. Avarin dries off his hands, and says in a tone of steel, "There is no need for any more healing sessions. I prescribe, as I said before, rest." Damian opens his mouth, but is cut off by the physician, "And when I say rest, I mean _not moving_. You are confined to this ward for the next two days. The head nurse will have to sew that cut up. And then you will go to sleep." It is an order, not a question.

The patient nods meekly, and the head nurse approaches with a needle and specially designed medical thread.

The nurse has just finished, and Damian is dozing off when the muffled sound of the double doors slamming down the corridor outside jerks him awake. He is about to grumble loudly when Avarin and the rest of the senior healing staff snap their heads up in alarm. Damian knows the look on their faces – their minds have been contacted. Whatever it is, it must be deadly important for this to be done. He has an aching suspicion that it has to do with the king and his sons.

A jumbled mix of emotions flit across Avarin's face.

As one, the medical staff suck in a surprised breath, eyes wide.

Avarin drops everything in his hands and bolts for the door, crying out breathlessly for his senior healing team to follow. Two nurses run to hold the ward doors open.

Ringing footsteps resound down the corridor, and every patient in the medical ward strain their necks in an attempt to see. Damian tenses at the last second, for he fears what is to come.

A twirl of red cloth appears from the corner – Thor, leaning heavily on the captain of the Guard, face unhealthily pale and Mjolnir nearly slipping from his grasp. The head nurse guides them quickly into the adjoining private ward. Damian sighs in relief, for from what he sees, Thor is not mortally wounded. The presence of the captain of the Guard indicates that Aidan reached the citadel in time to warn the Guard. But then he realises that Odin and Loki are nowhere to be seen. Considering Thor's condition, at least the king should be hovering close.

_There is something amiss_, Damian thinks. He has no time to wonder what it is, for Avarin strides in, hands drenched in scarlet.

And behind him is Odin, helm gone, brow creased, face streaked with half-dried tears, and in his arms is his younger son, Loki.

Damian stifles a gasp. His eyes follow father and son as they hurry towards the ward. Loki's head hangs limp and unresponsive, his clothes black with dust, and both his hands are bound tightly with many layers of cloth bandages, clearly hastily managed by a physician on the street. They are stained a brilliant crimson, and measured drips of red trace the path by which the king came.

It may be a trick of the light, but Damian almost thinks the prince's skin is so deathly white so as to appear a milky blue.

Odin's devastated face shows his concern and suffering for his son. Damian sits halfway up to better see Loki's condition, but the king as if sensing this walks even faster, shielding his son protectively from view.

Avarin waits until they have entered the private ward, and then shuts the door firmly. Only the senior staff has been allowed in, about four or five people.

The rest of the ward gazes dumbstruck at the gilded door.

Damian drops back, knowing that for all his attempts to keep to his job of protecting Loki, he has failed miserably.

(~~~)

As the gold-rimmed door swings shut, Odin gently lies Loki down, and turns to Avarin. "It was Azariel," Odin communicates, words rushing out so quickly that they overlap with each other, "but he somehow purged it out with his magic." Avarin sweeps his all-encompassing gaze across both brothers. He easily realises what is awry, saying, "But if both were poisoned, and both are now clean, why – "

Odin slams a hand down on the table. "Yes. He will not wake." He sits down heavily next to Loki, and repeats as if to himself, "He will not wake."

Avarin has an extraordinary expression on his face, for by now Loki's skin is unmistakably a deep shade of blue, the exact hue of a –

"Frost giant," Avarin whispers. Blue eyes meet grey, as he adds, "Is this his…natural state?"

Odin, already emotionally unstable, flies into a rage. "_Yes! My son is a frost giant! What does it matter? Will you, master physician, do your duty_ and save my son?" He is hopelessly quiet by the end, anger subsiding as quickly as it began. He holds his son's hand in his own, fingers turning white from the freezing cold of Loki's skin.

All but Avarin in the room take an unconscious step back at the king's reaction. Avarin knows this unexpected burst of emotion reflects how dearly Loki matters to the king, and holds up both hands placatingly. "You misunderstand me, sire," he says, "What I meant was, does he repress this form naturally? Is it usually a unconscious reflex for the prince to appear Asgardian?"

Odin nods, and says almost inaudibly, "Yes. Since the day I first held him in my hands at the temple in Jotenheim." He looks Avarin straight in the eye. "What, then, does this – " he gestures at Loki, " – signify?"

Avarin reaches for his instruments. "I am not sure yet, sire." He reaches to feel the prince's pulse, but Odin, gripping Loki's hand, is in the way. Avarin clears his throat slightly. "May I?" he asks. The question seems to jerk Odin out of a daze, and the physician checks Loki's heartbeat and shines a light in his eyes. Avarin has to physically stop himself from recoiling in shock at the sudden red of Loki's irises.

Odin looks inexpressibly weary, despite his attempt to compose himself. When Avarin seems to finish, he merely says, "Well, master?" Avarin holds up a hand, a bold move indeed, cutting off the king. "Has anyone checked his magical core?" he asks sharply.

A tired voice sounds from the corner. "No. No one." Thor, though unable to rise, fixes his gaze unwaveringly on his brother.

"Right. Excuse me, sire, but this is necessary." Avarin knows that it is an extreme breach of etiquette to touch another's magical core, but it seems unlikely that the king would object in such a situation as this. Avarin strides forward and places the tips of his fingers on Loki's forehead. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and plunges his mind into the current that should be Loki's magic –

– no, not a current. Barely a trickle of melted gold, little eddies of white, and the core, what should be a glowing sphere of beautiful light, is but a dying circle pulsing to Loki's slow heartbeat. Avarin's magic is emerald green, and he walks through the flow of power, seeing how the threads of Loki's magic wilt and fade toward the core. Acting purely instinctively, Avarin casts out whips of his magic, supporting and feeding energy to those threads that are failing.

The drain on his energy is abrupt and immense. Loki's core absorbs energy like a child about to drown, gasping for air. Avarin goes rigid, teeth clenched. Odin springs halfway out of his seat, but is wisely held back by the captain of the Guard.

Loki's hand suddenly returns his father's grip, and although he does not open his eyes, the colour of his skin shifts and flickers, growing paler. Odin scrambles to peer at his son's face, looking earnestly for any sign. Meanwhile, the medical room is in uproar as Avarin blanches and the healers scuttle back and forth, waving their hands in confusion.

In their shared minds, Avarin tries desperately to pull his magic back from Loki's, not just because of the huge energy strain. Loki's consciousness is crying out in pain and despair, a dense core of untold sorrow. Avarin fears that if he remains in it any longer, he will be washed away into oblivion. But he cannot. He is an extremely strong magician by any count, famed in Asgard, but at this moment he knows that he is nothing but a speck of dust in the whirlwind of power that is Loki's magic. Loki is pulling his very soul into the magic, slipping away, and he cannot break the link.

The captain of the Guard leaps across the room and wrenches Avarin's hand from Loki's temple. Avarin gasps, stumbling back from the hospital bed and falling to the ground. He holds his head in his hands, and he trembles unwillingly. Loki makes a tiny noise, something like a whimper, and the blue shade once again flows over his skin.

Odin cries, "No! Come back!" He turns back to look at Avarin, and the physician stands unsteadily, opening his eyes. Something catches in Odin's throat, for Avarin's eyes are a brilliant leafy green – Loki's eyes.

But then Avarin shakes his head and wipes the sweat off his face with his sleeve, and when his eyes are visible again, they are ice blue as normal.

A heavy silence settles over the ward, broken only by Avarin's heavy breathing.

Between gasping breaths, Avarin, who is using the wall as a means of support, says to Odin, "Your son's magic is beyond anything I have ever encountered or will encounter. I suspect that is why he could manipulate the Azariel at all."

Odin says shortly, "Will he live?" His voice is imploring.

Avarin breaks out in a fit of coughing, and when it passes, he says, "I do not know. His magic is almost completely gone. It must have taken a terrible amount of power to cleanse himself of Azariel. He does not even have the reserves left to take the appearance he usually has…"

"And that is why he is in Jotenheim form." Odin finishes the sentence for him. "Can we supply the needed energy?" The king is practical; he has jumped to the easiest solution almost immediately.

Avarin's smile is wan. "Yes and no," he says carefully, "I myself was supplying the magic barely a moment ago. If allowed to continue, I would not be standing before you now. But if you order it, sire…"

Odin swivels slowly to face the master physician. He seems to contemplate this for a second, his care for his son seeming to clash and rage with his duty to his subjects. Avarin swallows.

"No," Odin whispers softly, "I do not order it."

The medical room at large seems to relax.

Avarin hurries forward. "Then we will care for his physical injuries, and give him the best care that can be afforded," and here he pauses, "If he will wake, he will wake." He looks to Odin for an affirmation.

Odin nods once, tiredly.

As the medical team rush to tend to Loki's cloth-bound hands, Avarin takes the chance to lean closer to the king and say in a soft undertone, "Thank you, sire."

Odin can make no reply. He only smoothes Loki's hair off his forehead, half-thinking that the icy cold beneath his hand reflects that his son is lying dead and cold before him. He shivers once, in strange foreboding.

He leans close to Loki, and says to himself, "My son, my son, what dreams do you walk in?"

(~~~)

Strange dreams indeed, that run tripping through Loki's consciousness. Some are dark and cold, some blazing white, and still others defy description, flying on the fault lines of thought and no-thought.

At first, merely on the edge of unconsciousness, Loki knows that strong arms carry him, the world around him flickers with the firelight that penetrates his eyelids, and what seems like the mindless chatter of surrounding people that barely register in his mind. He feels safe, for some reason, and somehow his injuries no longer pain him. So easy to drift to sleep…should he fall asleep? If he did, would he wake?

The thought does not trouble him as it ought to.

Suddenly, a _presence_ is there in his mind, glowing with life and energy so bright and vivid that he only then realises how dark and weak his own is by comparison. Curious, Loki reaches out and pokes the emerald light with his mind, just to see what it is. The energy revives something that was dying within him, and, interest piqued, Loki continues to prod and jab the green power, his senses sharpening.

Someone is holding his hand. He wonders who.

As his mind grows clear, so does a strange feeling of danger, creeping into his thoughts. By and by, this fear intensifies, and he somehow knows that this ethereal green light is his way out of this terror. He must not be separated from it, must not –

And with a small _pop_, the green presence disappears. Crying out in his mind, he delves into the gap that it left, extraordinary colours drifting across his mind, until his vision clears, and for a single instant, he has a dream of a room, where a king cries over somebody lying still and motionless, and there are healers standing behind.

But then he is sucked back, and once more is trapped in darkness.

Gone is that feeling of security. Loki opens his eyes to find himself in a dark, bitterly cold chamber, a weak light drifting in from a hewn window in solid ice and stone. He is dressed warmly in his usual winter clothes, but yet he is still terribly cold, shivering when he should not need to. His breath comes out in little puffs of air.

_Where am I?_

Convinced that he is in some sort of dreamlike reality, Loki begins to pace in order to keep warm. A flight of stone steps to his right. He ignores that for the moment. Better to take a good look around first.

A murmur of noise drifts up from the stairwell, and Loki snaps his head around, crouched. He scans the room for a place to conceal himself, finding none. Sighing, he turns to face the stair, knowing that it is futile to try to hide. His sharp ears discern the clink of metal and weaponry, voices raised high in tension.

Half a minute later, a dozen men and women clad in armour rush through the doorway into the room. Loki has barely time to register that they are frost giants, before their leader strides to the centre of the room, passing through him as if he is an insubstantial wraith. Loki lets out a cry of surprise, but when he looks down at himself, he is perfectly solid. Not one of the soldiers make any reaction to the noise he just emitted. Obviously, they cannot hear nor see him.

Head buzzing with this revelatory piece of information, Loki swivels on the spot to face the frost giants' leader. He freezes in place, unable to move out of shock.

Laufey, king of the frost giants, Loki's birth father, stands tall and regal in front of him.

Loki knows Laufey must be dead. Why, he killed him with his own hand. But that does not change the fact that he stands before him now.

Laufey seems angry and distracted, lending his already cruel visage a feral shade. His followers are gasping for breath, tired from their flight. "That filthy Asgardian! How many reinforcements do we have left?" This is addressed to his second in command, who merely shakes his head, crimson eyes dead. "Not enough, sire," he says, "What do we do?" It dawns on Loki that he is seeing an image from the past – the great war between the frost giants and Asgard. Odin must have scored an almost certain victory by now, if Laufey is forced to run to an abandoned temple such as this.

Laufey snarls at the question, grinding the butt of his axe into the ice. He seems to waver, and his last few remaining followers wait respectfully in silence for his word.

A child's tiny cry breaks the stillness, weak from the cold. It comes from a bundle in one of the women soldier's arms.

Laufey breaks into a tirade, pushed over the edge by his perilous situation and the child both. "That blasted child!" he roars. The woman holding the baby backs away. Laufey straightens, and takes a sweeping look at his men. "We go," he says, "now." His harsh voice is commanding.

Loki looks on, unseen and unheard.

As Laufey turns to go, the baby gives one, last, complaining wail. Laufey's footsteps stop. Without turning his head, he orders, "Leave the child." The woman says wonderingly, "Leave your son, my lord?"

Laufey turns his scarlet gaze on her, and she withdraws, head bowed low in submission. As the others file out, she goes to a corner, and places the tiny child in a depression on the stone ground. Then she too goes, sparing a glance for him.

And as Loki looks at the carvings of the frost giant temple, and at the helpless baby shivering, left to die.

No, not a dream.

This is more a forgotten memory.

***Cocks head* What do you think? Loki's going to witness his past! Long chapter, this was. Wow – speaking like Yoda for no reason, I am. Hahahaha, Loki's true identity is revealed…. Anyway, reviews are greatly appreciated, and see all of you in 8 or 9 days!**


	8. Chapter 8

**King Henry IV is going to come out soon. I may collapse into fangirl frenzy. Shakespeare! (Whoop!) And Hiddles! (Double Whoop!) All together! I'm going to die! Anyway, here is the new chapter, which I hope you all like. *The Author gives you all an extremely elegant bow (complete with flourishes), and then proceeds to fall flat on her face. How wonderful.* Apologies for the long author's note yet again.**

**Reviews:**

**Bloody-Destination: Um. Thank you? O.O Haha, here's the update, right on time :)**

**KelKay24: Thank you so much! I'm glad you liked it. XD When's your chapter coming out, by the way? **

**Altamiya: Thanks! Smurf Loki is win. :) Hope you like this chapter!**

**The Pearl Maiden: Yes, well, both brothers must suffer, musn't they? Poor smurf Loki, undergoing pain because of my evil fangirlyness muahahahaha! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Child of Hermes: Thanks! Hope you enjoy this one!**

**kaykay24: Thank you! Loki is the best character in all the Marvel movies, hands down. **

**LiesmithLoki: Thanks, and I hope you like this chappie XD**

**OhCasanovah: Thank you, truly. T.T That just encouraged me so much. I'm really happy that you like this fic. I don't really think I deserve all of that praise, thank you so, so much! **

**ninjaloki: Why, thank you! I just had these scenes rolling through my head in sharp detail, until people were staring at me because I had this strange beatific smile on my face and my eyes were glazed over. It's a wonder they don't label me as weird XD **

**KoiGirlPGSM: Thanks for reviewing!**

**I don't own Avengers, blahblah don't arrest me, and onwards with the story! Oh wait, wait, I do own all OCs. My new favourite is Avarin (sorry Damian!). Do you guys like him?**

Sunset on Jotenheim is different. On Asgard, night falls with a promise of a new day ahead, the end of work and the beginning of rest. In Jotenheim, with the dying light comes the birth of darkness, fear, and terrible, terrible cold. The wind brings a glacial touch of menace, the only sound in a world of ice and stone.

Through the blizzard of hail and snow, a line of yellows lights flicker insubstantially in the hazy distance, marking the forefront of the Asgardian forces. The wind carries distant shouts and cries, the sufferings of a people at war. The hewn towers of rock and ice shift uneasily with the coming defeat of their creators, as Laufey and his men make their last stand against the sea of gold that is Odin and the armies of Asgard, shining bright under the unwavering glow of Gungnir. A frost giant child, last to leave the forgotten city, runs with pattering feet away from the fray, dressed in rags, scarlet eyes round with fear. His mother and father are not with him. He flees onto the great plain beyond, where he will surely die from exposure to the elements.

And so the city lies holding its breath, with a raging army fringing its east, and the bitter lands unpopulated to its west.

The fading light of the Jotenheim sun casts pale, insufficient rays in a square on the floor of the abandoned temple. The structure itself is a crumbling mockery of its former glory, hunched over with age and weariness, and with the coming of night seems to loom and groan like a wizened old man smiling in grim, macabre victory.

The city is dead, except for one tiny life left abandoned in the shattered temple. Well, one and a half lives, if the wavering ghost trapped in his own memory is considered.

Even the tiny life begins to fade.

(~~~)

It takes but three steps for Loki to reach the tiny improvised cradle on the ground, in which he himself lies, a helpless baby, hungry and cold. The movement takes almost no effort, as if the air in this dreamlike world has a thinner, weaker quality than that of reality. Loki pulls his fur-lined coat tighter around him, and shivers, his pale face made paler by the cold.

Next to the cot, he takes a breath to steel his heart, and looks down at the little blue-skinned baby. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at the inquisitive eyes that blink up at him. Unsure if the child version of himself cannot see him just as his father and the soldiers could not, Loki extends a long, thin finger, and waggles it uncertainly in front of the baby's face.

Baby Loki squeals in delight, chubby fingers reaching out to this new, kind being.

Loki withdraws his hand in surprise too quickly, for the child, scared by the sudden movement, begins to cry. As the wail of discontent rises to Loki's ears, he winces and takes a step back. The baby's cries rise and vary in pitch, and Loki's face is now a picture of panic, the same expression that has previously graced many a face when left alone with a baby that they are unable to handle.

"_Waaaaaaaahhh…"_

Loki grimaces in something akin to fear, wringing his hands in indecision. It occurs to him how ridiculous the situation is – why, the child lying there is technically himself. He knows not how he can actually _be_ here, but he attributes it to some manifestation of his strained magic.

Baby Loki breaks into his thoughts with a louder, more insistent squeak.

Sighing, Loki strides over and plonks down next to the baby, offering a weak smile at the strangeness of it all. "Hello, me," he intones softly. Immediately he feels idiotic at the stupidity of the words.

At the sound of his voice, baby Loki stops crying, and hiccups into a curious silence. He gurgles quietly, eyes wide at his new friend. Loki calms himself down somewhat – _at least I got him to shut up_ – and twirls a finger over the baby's face, seeing how the round red eyes follow its movement. Smiling a true smile now, he leans his head on one hand, and continues amusing the child with the other. Baby Loki makes little cooing sounds of joy, short arms waving about in midair, trying to touch Loki's dancing fingers.

"Funny how I was once you, child," Loki says, his sable hair shrouding his face. "Wa?" the baby answers in indecipherable baby talk. Loki laughs lightly. "Never mind," he says.

This continues for a little while, and the square of remaining daylight on the ground grows dimmer.

Loki's eyes are unfocused, half-dreaming of a forgotten memory, when something like a drop of ice touches his finger. Startled, he looks down to see baby Loki grinning with triumph at catching his fingertips at last, delicate blue fingers wrapping around his own. Loki brushes away the bizarre thought that he is actually touching _himself_, and relinquishes his hand to become the baby's new chew toy, barely registering the sharp little teeth.

By and by, the baby's squeals grow quiet, as the damp chill settles in. The white mist that forms out of Loki's breaths becomes thicker, indicating a drop in temperature. Baby Loki trembles, and curls into a smaller bundle. Loki shivers also, hunching over regardless of his thick clothing. He finds it strange, for as the baby shows signs of hypothermia, so does he. Perhaps they are linked through more than a shared past.

The baby makes a small, whimpering noise. "There, there," whispers Loki, stroking its hand with a gentle finger.

A gust of frigid wind rips through the stone chamber, and baby Loki breaks into coughing, tiny chest heaving with the force of each. Loki simultaneously explodes into a fit of coughing, and the sound echoes the baby's pitiful chokes. When Loki is finally able to stop, the copper taste of blood lines the back of his throat.

As the night grows older, Loki eventually lies down on the bleak stone floor, too miserable to think, mind made unresponsive by the bitter cold. The baby's breaths are fluttering gasps, and Loki knows that they will both soon sleep, never to wake again. They gain some comfort in their joined hands, and smile at the thought that they will not die completely alone. The baby snuggles closer to him.

The last life in the city begins to dwindle out.

A step on the staircase, and a clink of armour.

Through bleary eyes, Loki raises his head to see the fuzzy outline of his father. "Have you come to take me home?" he mumbles. There is no answer, and he struggles up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He springs backward in shock.

A younger version of Odin stands before him, Gungnir held loosely in his hand, bowed over by the tire of war. His ruined eye, a red gaping hole where a kind grey gaze should be, makes him stand like some old relic of a forgotten war. Loki examines his father with a peculiar expression – he does not remember any time when he saw him with a wound such as this. But the injury does not make him seem angry or warlike; rather, it makes Odin seem less stern, less an untouchable figure of power.

Loki watches as Odin wanders around the room, taking in the fading carvings and the moonlight falling through the window. Odin's line of sight passes Loki without pause, and he knows that his father cannot see him. The end of Gungnir scrapes the stone floor, tracing a white scratch. Loki, whose hand still hold the fingers of his younger self, tilts his head and watches his father's progression.

Odin turns to leave, and Loki cries out for him to wait. But he does not hear.

As the king begins to step down the staircase, baby Loki gives an insignificant noise.

Odin snaps his head round, keen gaze searching for the source of the sound. Baby Loki makes a helpful squeal with the last of his strength.

Loki can only watch, dumbstruck, as his father pads towards the baby. Red eyes meet grey. Odin reaches down, and seems to hesitate. But the baby extends his chubby arms, and Odin relents, picking up the child. "Son of Laufey," he whispers. Loki trembles at his father's touch, and his fingers are torn away from the baby's hand. The baby squeals and giggles, skin turning impossibly from blue to pink. It knows that it is safe in the king's arms.

At the baby's sudden transformation, Odin looks taken aback. A look of intense contemplation crosses his face. Loki knows he is considering what to do. He begs his father in his heart to take him away from this cold, desolate palce.

The baby decides for the king by grasping a handful of his beard and tugging hard. Odin rumbles a laugh, and says, "I forgot Thor used to do that." The baby falls oddly quiet at his voice. "Come, child," the king says, and as an afterthought, "Laufeyson no more. Henceforth you shall be Odinson."

Settling the baby in the crook of his arm, Odin casts his thick cloak over the child, who promptly settles down to sleep. Loki feels a similar warmth wash over him as the newly paired father and son walk slowly down the stone steps to a new life.

The scene before him turns fuzzy at the edges, and he feels weak on his feet. _What's happening?_ He looks around him, and vast sections of the world seem to cave and tear into darkness beyond.

Loki falls into darkness.

(~~~)

Green eyes open once more. Loki is dressed in his usual green and gold. A quick glance around him shows that it is late afternoon in Asgard, and a heavy warmth suffuses from the air. He is on the terrace of his father's set of rooms, and a gentle wind plays with his hair. Asgard gleams below him, shining with the sunlight.

A noise behind him.

He turns around, and through a pane of glass sees Odin, now dressed in everyday clothes, holding baby Loki in both arms. The child gurgles contentedly, and mumbles, "Dada." Odin pauses, and says, "Well, you're a quick learner, aren't you?" But his smile shows his inner joy as he taps the child on the nose.

Loki creeps closer, slipping silently into the room. Once he has entered, he notices his mother, Frigga, sitting gracefully in a chair. Her copper hair is tied back from her face, and she seems younger, and happier. Odin walks over to her, and she takes the baby into her arms.

"What shall we name him?" she asks her husband lightly. Odin sits down next to her, and says, "What do you suggest?" Frigga laughs wittingly, "Now you know your place. You insisted on naming Thor, and I had no choice in the matter. But this child…" Odin chuckles, and replies, "You may name him whatever you wish."

Frigga muses for a while. Then a beautiful light descends on her features, and she says, "I've always wanted a Loki."

Odin says with finality, "Then Loki it shall be then! Does it please you, child?" The newly named baby giggles.

Watching, Loki smiles also at the little scene. He is ill-used to seeing his father and mother so caring.

The double doors open slightly, accompanied with the sound of small running feet. The top of a blonde head of hair can be seen behind the sofa, and a four-year-old Thor bursts into view, throwing himself into his father's arms with a hyperactive yell.

Odin staggers back from the force of the jump, and Thor begins to tell of his riding lesson. "' – " Odin laughs. "Take a breath, Thor, before you turn blue!" Thor obligingly sucks in air.

Even Loki, hiding behind the curtains, gives a wry grin at this.

Frigga says softly, "Thor, come here. I want you to meet your new brother." Thor turns from his father at this, eyes wide. His golden hair is dusty and wild from the horse ride, and his clothes are slapdash. He tiptoes over to his mother and peers inquisitively into the baby's round face. A small finger is poised to poke this strange new being. But Thor is stopped from the act by a stern look from his father. He grins apologetically.

"He's got green eyes, daddy," Thor proclaims. Frigga says, "Yes, dear, he has. His name is Loki." Thor screws up his face at the name, and attempts to pronounce it. "Lo-lokee." "Close enough," says Odin, hiding a smile, "You are a big brother now, Thor. That is a great responsibility."

Thor straightens his shirt, and says in comical solemnity, "Yes, father." Then some dust gets up his nose and he sneezes. Odin ruffles his hair. "Go run and play, then." Thor switches back to his childish energy in a flash, and after giving baby Loki a careful look, sprints off to battle monsters and frost giants in his head.

Husband and wife look at each other, and Odin says, "They will make good brothers." Frigga inclines her head, and replies, "I think so, yes."

Loki begins to feel the tugging sensation again, and the world falls to pieces around him.

(~~~~)

When he opens his eyes, Loki stands in the same room. It is lit by soft torchlight, and the sky is patterned with constellations. The room is older, perhaps by a few years. The scuffed edges of a few of the chairs, no doubt caused by children running and jumping over the furniture, have multiplied somewhat due to Loki and his brother two.

Odin strides back and forth, shoulders tense and hunched, hands clasped behind his back. Gungnir leans against the wall, firelight gleaming off its length. Loki walks up to his father and watches him pace, mind quivering with unsaid words. He knows by now that his father cannot see him nor hear him, but he feels he must say something, if only to ease the pain in his heart.

"I'm sorry, father," Loki says, turning to follow his father's movement. "I never quite understood you, but you tried to understand me. I – "

"Should I tell him?" Odin interjects, and for a second Loki thinks that his father had said that in reply. But then the king is only talking to himself. "_How_ could I tell him?" Odin curses softly, running a hand through his greying hair. Loki looks questioningly at his father.

The doors at the end of the room creak open, and Frigga enters, a few wisps of hair escaping from her headdress. She looks tired, and resigned. Odin meets her gaze with an imploring look. "He's sleeping now," Frigga says, "and with luck he will remember little of the events of this night in the morning."

"Good," Odin replies, "Loki needs it."

Frigga casts herself into a chair by the fire, and stares moodily into the flames. "He does," she answers shortly.

Odin sighs. "Frigga," he begins, "It can't be done – "

Frigga flies into a rage. "_It can't be done?_ You hypocrite, the question is, was, and always will be whether you are _willing_ to tell him!" A shadow falls over Odin's features as his wife continues to berate him. "How many more incidents must pass before our son knows his true origin?"

With a shudder, Loki matches the events before him to his memories. When he seven years old, he had crept into the vault together with Thor. His brother had dared him to touch the Casket. He had not wanted to, but his brother's mocking grin had forced him to do it. He remembers how the disconcerting blue light seemed to draw him into its depths, and the electrifying energy that ran through his very soul when his unsure finger touched the surface of the Casket. He had woken to his parents' concerned faces, and his mother had carried him to his room. He had never asked his father why the Casket reacted in that way to his touch. And his father had never told him. An involuntary shiver runs through him now.

He watches as his mother touches Odin's hand and asks pleadingly, "Will you tell him? He deserves to know."

Odin's head is bowed, and he looks into his wife's eyes searchingly. "No," he says softly. Frigga drops his hand as if burned. Odin tries to explain. "You do not understand, I –"

"Why do you subject our son to such pain? _Do you not love him?_" Frigga is shouting now, tears dripping from the edges of her eyelashes. Her tone is accusing.

The king is very quiet. Loki watches with an unsettled fire in his eyes. Then Odin says in a voice laced with suffering and regret, "On the contrary. It is because I love him too much."

The words sink into Loki's thought like pebbles thrown into clear water. Loki rests his hands on the edge of the window frame, and his eyes glimmer with a strange wetness.

Odin continues, "How can I tell Loki who he is? No matter how we assure him that his true parentage means nothing to us, he will hate himself. How could I rip apart his very identity? Do you know what harm that can cause a child of his age?"

Frigga is quieted by this. "I wish only to protect him," she says. Odin comes to sit next to her. "That is my wish also," he answers. His wife meets this with a meditative silence. Then she nods once.

Odin exhales in relief, and kisses her hand. "Thank you," he says simply.

Loki steps into the room, walking slowly to where his parents sit together. He looks searchingly from one face to the other, and asks, "What you said, did you really mean those words?" Of course, they do not answer, but their shared expression answers for them.

Somehow every movement is light and easy in this dream-world of old, and Loki steps out into the night breeze, heart full of new emotions. It occurs to him that if he had a choice, he would like to return to his father's side. Settling down into a corner of the terrace, he curls up under his cloak and allows his mind to drift with the stars spinning in a great disc above, listening to his father and mother talk long into the night.

By and by, he falls asleep.

(~~~)

White. White lights, golden engravings, mahogany walls, orange firelight.

Loki's eyes are half-lidded, and he barely discerns shapes wavering in front of him. His heart is beating slow and steady, and he can hear his own breathing. These things are all that his mind can process, and for a while, he drifts in and out of consciousness. There are no voices around him to disturb his peace.

Eventually, his vision clears, and Loki awakes to the world, rising out of layers of dreams and imaginings that populated his thoughts for so long. The first thing he notices is that he is mired in a heavy lethargy, so that even to blink seems a difficult feat.

He is lying still on a hospital bed, the firelight muted around him. Sitting asleep by his bedside, Gungir resting on a small table, head askew on one shoulder, is his father, Odin. Loki smiles despite his tiredness at how much less imposing his father seems, breathing quietly and eyes closed. Even while the king sleeps, he holds Loki's hand tightly, and only now does the prince realise who it was that gripped his hand at that strange meeting with the emerald ball of light at the very beginning of his dreams. He is glad of the comforting touch.

When his eyes adjust to the dark halflight, he sees that his brother Thor lies sleeping soundly on the adjacent bed behind Odin, Mjolnir placed carefully next to him. Thor is partitioned off by a plane of glass into the other half of the room. All seems well, and Loki allows his drowsy mind to drift in a state of happy tranquility.

Then the door of the private ward opens, flooding the room with light as the head nurse brings in a tray.

Loki's pupils constrict suddenly with the glare, and he gasps loudly in spite of himself.

The nurse drops the pitcher of water on the tray, and it smashes on the ground with a sharp cascade of glass. Odin jerks awake, reaching by reflex for Gungnir. The head nurse makes an apologetic sound, dithers between wanting to wipe up the mess and notifying the master physician, and wisely chooses the latter, turning on her heel and hastening out of the ward, closing the door behind her.

Odin rushes up from his seat, kneeling next to Loki's beside and looking keenly at his son's face. Loki gives a tired smile, blinking away the spots in his eyes. "How do you feel, my son?" Odin asks, voice rough from worry and lack of rest. Loki nods in reassurance, moved by his father's caring demeanor.

Odin releases a pent-up breath. "You've been unconscious for nearly two days," he explains, taking Loki's hand in both his own. Loki's sight drifts towards his brother, and Odin continues quickly, "Your brother is fine. More than fine. He would have died without your intervention. It is you that I have been worrying about." The king cannot take his eyes away from his son, as if reassuring himself every moment that his son still lives before him.

Loki has so many words jumbled up in his head, all yearning to be said and in the process ironically barring him from coherent speech. In the end, he chooses the easiest thought to express. "Father…" Loki manages to eke out.

Odin murmurs, "Yes, my son?"

"Laufey…was a terrible father," Loki whispers. The king's features harden for an instant, not in anger, but in fear and regret. Loki coughs, breaking up his words. "Do you understand, father?"

And Odin understands. Loki is saying, albeit in a roundabout way, that he is glad for what happened that day in the Jotenheim temple. It is the greatest gift he can give to the king, who knows with a feeling of profound joy that his lost son has now truly come back to him.

Father and son remain in companionable silence, Odin restraining himself from speech lest he tire his exhausted son further. Thor's quiet snores float softly from across the room. A corner of Loki's mouth twists upwards.

The sound of running booted feet travels toward them, and physician Avarin bursts into the ward, rolling up the sleeves of his long sapphire coat. Silhouetted in the backlight that makes the tips of his black hair appear silver, Avarin makes a hasty bow to the king, turning to Loki immediately afterwards. One of his four or five aides flexes her fingers, and with a whip of magic brings every lamp in the ward into flaring luminescence.

"My lord," Avarin inquires, "How do you feel? I –"

He is cut off by a startled gasp from Loki.

As the bright firelight illuminates the dark corners of the room, Loki discovers to his abject horror that his skin on his arms is blue. He is in full Jotenheim form – in front of the senior medical team. Unaware that his father has already explained his true nature in the most basic terms to Avarin and his aides, he undergoes a moment of panic, fear showing on his features.

Delving into his core and purposefully ignoring the still-weak pulse of his magic, Loki wills his normal form to appear. Nothing happens. His skin remains the hue of a frost giant, and a quick glance in the mirror opposite shows the alarm in his scarlet eyes.

As his heart rate triples, Odin tries to explain to Loki that all is well. "My son, there is no cause for concern; the master physician says that this is a result of your drained magic."

Shrugging off his father's attentions, Loki closes his eyes and prepares to wrangle what power he can from his core, anything to change his appearance from this…this _monster _to a normal Asgardian. He feels repulsed just seeing his own reflection in the mirror. A questioning thought at the back of his head notes that he may fall into a stupor again if his core undergoes such stress, but he pushes it aside rashly.

Avarin keenly spies his intent, and reaches out to touch Loki's shoulder. "You cannot do this, my lord," he orders firmly, "you _will_ fall again into a coma, or worse, you will not come out alive. Leave this for later, when there is time, and you have strength." When Loki does not respond, he shakes him, an edge of anxiety tingeing his tone. "Listen!" he cries, and turns to Odin, expression showing all too clearly what is at stake.

Loki summons what dregs of power he has, and is about to invoke the magic when a deep voice sounds right next to his ear. "My son." Odin's voice. "Please do not attempt this." Loki's eyes flutter open, but he shakes his head resolutely. "Look at me!" Odin is desperate now, and he reaches out and turns Loki's head so that grey eyes meet green. "My son, I _cannot_ lose you again. I have lost you once, gone through the pain of thinking you would never wake, and now I cannot suffer that again. Think! Think of your father!"

Loki tilts his head, a strange light dancing in his gaze. "But I am. Do I not disgust you in this form?" Odin gives a sad smile. "No, Loki. You should know by now that you are and always will be my son, and nothing else. Do you see?" The medical staff look away and shuffle backwards, embarrassed to be present at such a personal exchange between father and son. Only Avarin studies them with intense observation.

Nodding his head, Loki releases his grip on the magic and sits back, spent. Odin relaxes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Avarin comes forward and asks a series of routine questions, all of which Loki answers as briefly as possible. Satisfied with his wellbeing, Avarin turns to Odin. "The prince has been exceedingly lucky this time round, sire. He," and here he looks at Loki pointedly, "is not to strain himself for the next few days. He needs sleep, and rest. I do not deem it necessary for a transfusion of magic as the prince does not require it at the moment, and it would seriously disadvantage one of my helpers. But know this. Just because he did not fall into eternal sleep after a magical outburst of that magnitude does not mean he can attempt it again and survive." Avarin is deadly serious.

Odin nods, and says with heartfelt sincerity, "Yes. Thank you, Avarin." He trusts the physician completely, and Loki discerns something in the way his father bears himself that out of love, care, and fear, he will be restrained in all terms of magic in the future. A hapless sigh escapes. Odin seems to have taken Avarin's words as Loki's death sentence if he does not comply.

In answer to the king, Avarin merely performs a short bow, and says, "It was my duty, sire."

The physician then continues, "I now need to examine how your injured hands are healing, my lord." This is addressed to Loki, who frowns in confusion, only noticing his thickly bandaged left hand at that moment.

"Did I lose consciousness before some new wound was dealt to me?" Loki asks, "For in my memory only my right hand was hurt in the fray." He raises the delicately bound right hand, where strips of white cloth bind his arm up to the elbow, giving his hand an appearance of wearing a pale glove.

His left hand is far heavier, wrapped in so much wadding that it is a fist of white and he cannot even discern his fingers in the bundle of cloth.

Avarin opens his mouth to reply, blue eyes narrowing in realisation, but Odin cuts in. "Do you not remember, my son?" He sounds terribly sad.

"Remember _what_?" Loki returns, alarm beginning to appear on his features. "What happened to me?"

Odin knows that Loki is becoming agitated, and tries to calm him, speaking slowly and placatingly, "Do not worry, we can talk about this later. Rest now." He looks pointedly at Avarin, who closes his mouth and steps back with submissive nod.

But Loki is not to be tricked. Grasping the loose end of the bandages around his left wrist, he begins to unwind the cloth with the deft dexterity that his fingers have always possessed. He ignores the twinges of pain from his injured right hand. Odin begins to stop him, but then pauses and thinks better of it.

As the bindings fall one by one, streaks of black peep out from under white, remnants of the havoc caused by the poison Azariel. Undaunted, Loki works his way up to his wrist, and as the pressure on his hand lifts, he regains some feeling in his fingers. But something feels wrong. He doesn't quite know specifically what it is that disturbs him, but it is there nonetheless. Only when the final bandage falls from his hand does understand.

He gazes upon his left hand, veins of black that show even through his currently blue skin.

And the last finger of his left hand is missing.

Loki stares at his hand with a kind of horrified fascination, turning it to see the extent of the injury. The medical room waits with bated breath at his reaction. Loki flexes his fingers experimentally, and is rewarded with a sharp flash of pain that causes him to bite his tongue accidentally. Odin is silent, but his grip on his son's shoulder tightens at this.

A while later, Loki finally looks up, a bitter smile surfacing. "It's only a finger. Many a soldier has gone through worse. Why worry overmuch about such a slight wound? Physician, if you please." He extends his hand for Avarin to inspect, and Avarin does, gesturing for his poultices and pastes. One of his helpers hands him each item as he requires it.

As this is going on, Loki turns to his father. "How did it happen?" His voice is conversational, forcibly light. As Avarin places a poultice on his hand, he winces. That is the only show of pain that he allows to slip through the controlled mask that is his face.

Odin grimaces, and says, "Do you remember when you purged the Azariel into your left hand?" Loki nods once in affirmation. "You managed to concentrate the poison into your little finger, but you had no power left to push it out completely. I had forged into the maelstrom around you, and Gungnir was in my hand. It was all I could do to save your life. Do you resent me for what I did?"

Loki shakes his head. "No, father," he says, "It was necessary. Thank you. Please do not blame yourself." Odin seems to understand, but an air of sorrow remains around him.

Avarin finishes, and takes his leave. His medical team goes with him. As the door shuts, Loki prepares to rest and sleep all he can. His knows that his father will stay with him, and that is reassuring. But one thought remains.

"Father?" he asks.

"Yes?" comes the reply.

"Are _they_ to be trusted with the knowledge of my…identity? I trust Avarin, but the others…"

Odin is quick to comfort his son. "They have sworn secrecy to me. They will not dare let it slip to any ear."

The king sounds sure, but as Loki closes his eyes, he knows that there is a very real danger. And father and son are helpless to prevent it, if it should happen.

The thought sends a shiver of fear down Loki's spine.

**I hoped you all enjoyed that :) Now, please don't hate me! I thought that it would be unrealistic (well, in relative terms) for Loki to walk free, unscathed. So I picked the least serious long-term injury I could think of. I didn't hurt him…much. *Evil grin* No, in all seriousness, I can't bear to hurt dear Loki very much, so that's that. Review please, it makes me happy :) See you in 8 or 9 days!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello, all. The summer has begun, and there is a ridiculous amount of work to do. But because I love writing, and I love you all, this fic will not go neglected :) **

**We're getting to the real reconciliation now between Odin and his sons, which is what this fic is really about. Loki getting "therapy" (quote Hiddles) :D Not far left, people! Thanks for staying with this fic for so long!**

**Reviews:**

**TheFreedomSock: Well, yes. *Half shrug* (Loki impersonation RIGHT THERE – remember the spot in the movie? XD) Haha, I hope you like this chapter. Thanks!**

**Altamiya: Thank you! Frodo wasn't the inspiration for that, but I will say that as I was writing that section I noticed the parallel too :) Tiny Thor was so cute, I think if I write another fanfic it will probably be about Thor and Loki when they were younger. So adorable to write, them both as children.**

**TwilightFairy928: Thank you so much! Poor Loki has to suffer because of his rash actions, to the tandem sympathy and glee of us fangirls :D **

**Kaykay24: Thanks for reviewing! I hope you like this one.**

**Bloody-Destination: Thank you! Hope this chapter doesn't disappoint :)**

**Child of Hermes: Thank you!**

**Oh Casanovah: **_**Why are you apologising?**_** I love you! Don't you dare apologise *hugs* Thank you so much, and although I don't really like this new chapter very much, I hope you like it :)**

**Anonymous: You guessed in advance, right? I was wondering whether anyone would spot the Gungnir hint :) **

**The Pearl Maiden: Thanks! Hope this one makes you squeal :)**

**I don't own Avengers, I do own Avarin and Damian and any other characters made by me. **

**But before we go on, I would like to apologize – I don't like this chapter very much compared to the last few ones, but I hope you guys don't think that it's too rubbish. Hopefully? :)**

Secrets are strange things. They shimmer with an alluring fascination that inevitably draws one close. Why, a secret is held by only so few, it elevates the holder to some higher level – I know something _you_ don't. Secrets whisper in the crevasses and surfaces of minds, and settle neatly in the close divide between duty and irrepressible recklessness. They invade thoughts like a parasitic worm waiting for its moment to break into the light.

Secrets always hold something important to an individual. Sometimes, it may be trivial in the eyes of others. Sometimes, it may be extremely significant – such as a young prince's true identity.

The secret always manages to escape, no matter who holds it – it can be lord or lady, servant or soldier, child or adult.

Or medical personnel.

Different people bind and hold these secrets with different forms of chains. Some with cast-iron links, fired in the furnace of loyalty and responsibility. Some with frail ribbon and rope that snap at the slightest provocation.

Avarin, the master physician, would never allow a slip. His devotion to the king requires it.

There are members of his medical team that are less…trustworthy.

Even as a concerned king stands up quietly beside a hospital bed so as not to wake his sleeping son, and weathered hands pull the blanket higher over the prince's shoulders, a lightly tipped word said in half-laughter, a product of too much wine or too little rest, sets aflame an insatiable fire in the corner of the citadel.

Like a wakened fuse, the rumour sparks like an insubstantial wraith through the citadel, running off the tongues of many that hunger for gossip. A buzz of interest arises, whispers spread, pointed looks. Soon the entire citadel hums with the news.

A traveling musician on his way out of the citadel raises his eyebrows at the information, hums a curious little tune under his breath, and waves his hand in farewell to the castle guard, squinting in the bright sunlight. When he reaches his lodging, he tells the little tale out of the corner of his mouth, between bites of his meal, to a crowd of listeners that have nothing better to do.

_Are you serious?_

_Really?_

_Can this be true?_

And then – _I suspected that! Why else did he betray our king his father?_

Murmurs of assent.

All go home pondering this little tidbit of gossip, and one listener happens to own a tavern full of inebriated off-duty guards and merchants.

The spark turns into a wildfire.

The secret is a secret no longer, as it spreads through alley and street, window to window. The upper echelons of society laugh at the rumour's supposed ridiculousness, but squirrel the information away to the nearest ear. And in a dusty side street, a street child with a dirtied mop of hair and a sleazy grin chatters away to all who can hear.

As the sun makes its weary tread towards the western horizon and beyond, and throughout the night as the stars pinwheel in silent music, one thought dances through thousands of minds in Asgard.

_The prince is a frost giant_.

(~~~)

The private ward in the medical ward of the citadel is still.

Loki shifts in his slumber, hanging between wakefulness and sleep. There is a quiet murmur of voices behind him, and he frowns, wishing it would go away. The light is warm and muted, leading him to think that he is lying in his own room, and there are some talkative servants just outside his door.

He has a strange feeling that his brain was just working at a wondrous velocity, caught in some dreamscape. A faint tinge of ominousness remains, and though his heart beats slow and regular, Loki knows that the dream is not one he would like to return to. Only scraps and flutterings of leftover emotions and pictures remain in his mind.

Angered, closed faces. Some he recognises, some are unfamiliar. A voice. _Who are you?_

Loki shivers in his sleep, and comes closer to consciousness. The whisper of voices grows even softer, as if careful not to disturb him. The firelight in the ward dances across his eyelids. Suppressing a yawn, Loki finally wakes, eyes fluttering open, the world a haze.

When his vision clears, he looks straight into the face of a frost giant.

His eyes fly wide, and though he makes not a sound, his heart rate accelerates to a rapid tempo. The frost giant looks similarly shocked. Loki's hand clenches tight. It takes him a full half-minute of terrified staring to realise that he is looking into the metal surface of the water pitcher on his bedside table. The tarnished silver reflects a frost giant's face – his own.

Curious, he studies his own reflection, taking in how his eyebrows look more arched and faint, giving his face a leaner appearance. His navy visage is fiercer, more serious than his usual pale skin. _I look like Laufey. _The thought repulses him. But then he looks closer, and he sees how his upbringing has softened the hard lines of a Jotun face. Most notably, his scarlet irises lack the feral coldness that he remembered in Laufey's.

Letting his gaze drift from the silver, he is surprised to see his left hand unbound and resting before him. The wound where his little finger used to be is almost closed over, Avarin's poultices having done their work. He twitches his fingers carefully, and smiles wryly when there is no pain. His hand seems weaker, though, as if the muscles had atrophied because of the stress. Loki attributes this to the slowly receding lines of black poison residue that tinge the veins of his forearm. He decides that training his left hand to cope without the use of a finger is foremost in importance. His right hand remains bound, and the minute bone fracture in his wrist still twinges.

A movement in the surface of the pitcher causes him to flick his gaze upwards.

He sees the blurred outlines of Thor and Odin, standing outside of the partitioned area that he last saw his brother sleeping in. Thor is fixing his cape onto his shoulders, obviously healed and ready to leave the ward. There is still some bruising on his face, and the way he stands belies the hurt that the shallow stab wound causes. He does not wear his usual mail, rather a fine tunic that would not rub against his injury.

Father and son seem to be in the midst of a discussion. "Father," Thor says, "are you sure you wish to attempt this?" His tone is urgent. Loki listens intently, eyes fixed on their reflected image.

Odin reaches out to help Thor with his cape, as he is struggling to do so without aggravating his wound. As Odin fixes the crimson cloth, he answers, "Yes, Thor. It would be the greatest gift possible."

Thor shrugs the cloak around him, and says, "But father, the _council_…" His voice rises slightly in volume, and Odin is quick to motion for quiet.

"Lower your voice! You'll wake your brother," Odin says, glancing towards Loki's direction. Loki stays absolutely still, listening intently. He drops his eyelids half-closed, so his red eyes would not alert his father to his wakefulness. Thor says imploringly, "Father, it is too soon. The council will never agree, and all it will do is undermine your authority."

Odin steps slightly away from Thor, and says softly, "I must. We need to earn his trust. Whether the council agrees or not, I will try. I – no, you, owe him that much." Both look at Loki's supposedly sleeping form.

Thor takes a moment of quiet contemplation, and replies, "So be it, father. I trust your judgement."

Loki's mind whirs with thought, brow creasing as he tries to discern the meaning of their conversation. It has something to do with himself, that much he knows. The Asgardian high council…some form of yet to be known punishment? But he knows that he is reconciled to his father, so this is unlikely…and what is this "gift" they speak of? A hard-worn edge of suspicion, carved into his heart from recent events, unwillingly resurfaces slightly.

Odin nods in reply to Thor, and with a scuffle of his boots turns to leave. But Thor reaches after him, adding in a rushed sort of tone, "Father."

Odin looks back at him, and discerns a troubled air surrounding his son. "What is it?" he enquires.

"Has – that is, do you think – Loki has forgiven me?" Thor says. There is a hint of trepidation in his voice, as if he fears the answer. Odin smiles knowingly.

"Your brother forcibly took every last drop of the poison Azariel from you, knowing that he may not survive as a result. Do you, my son, think he has forgiven you?" he says gently.

Loki, listening, bristles slightly at the keen observation, and some little struggling part of his consciousness hangs on to that hatred that has been the driving force of his actions for so long.

Thor's face clears a little, but he remains troubled. "But father, I have done him much injury. I fear that I may never be truly forgiven."

Loki wonders at how his brother could think only of his own actions and not of the untold havoc that Loki had created on Midgard. As hurtful as Thor's childhood demeanor had been, Loki does not think that compares to trying to murder one's own brother.

A split second after this thought enters his head, his surprise grows tenfold at his own admittance of the wrongfulness of his action. He would not have thought himself capable of such.

Odin grows more serious at Thor's words, and says, "It will take time. There remains a chance that you both could be great brothers. I am glad that you have forgiven your brother for his sins. Whether he will forgive yours, the decision lies with him. But you have done all you can. I am proud of both of you."

_Both of us._ Loki's eyes shine mutedly.

Thor does not answer, and Odin rests his hand on Thor's shoulder for a moment, and then turns on his heel. As he leaves the ward, he adds, "Stay with him until he wakes. He has slept restlessly for the past few hours. I would be reassured if you were there in the event of something going amiss."

Thor nods. "I will, father."

Odin touches Loki's hand for a moment in farewell, whispering, "Be safe." – Loki hurriedly shuts his eyes – and Odin walks out of the ward, cloak disappearing outside the closing door.

Thor settles down in the chair next to Loki's bedside.

(~~~)

Master tracker Damian is not enjoying himself.

The hospital ward of the citadel is supposedly a clean, quiet, peaceful place to rehabilitate. It usually is, that is, unless a particular soldier or the other managed to perform some extraordinary feat of heroism. If so, then the ward that the particular individual occupies may be somewhat…busier.

Avarin had ordered Damian to sleep. Well, he had accordingly _tried_ to sleep. It wasn't very easy, considering the little titters of laughter from the nurses and visiting ladies to the communal ward, bursts of gossip about his bravery and valor and fearlessness and indispensability and whatnot.

Damian had turned beetroot red after just five minutes of it, as if detecting with his terribly accurate tracker's senses that many pairs of eyes constantly are directed at him. For goodness' sake, he was trained as a professional soldier, not a popularity figure. Sword and daggers he could handle. Giggling girls he could not. He wished that they would all go away.

This was bad enough without Avarin and his senior medical team hurrying back and forth from the private ward, some holding worryingly crimson bandages. They had been shut into the private ward for more than four hours, working long into the night before the head nurse and a few others had wearily trooped out of the room, Damian following them with a concerned gaze. He has taken the wellbeing of the king and his sons as his direct responsibility. It infuriated him that he was bedridden and helpless to aid them. Not that he would know how, if he could.

An hour after that, Avarin came out of the private ward, head bent and hands shaking with tiredness. His white coat was stained with dirt and blood. In the darkness of the sleeping ward, he turned to the small side room that he sometimes slept if need be, when a patient was in danger. This was one of those times. As he passed by Damian's bedside, he nodded once and made a noncommittal sign with his hand. Damian had taken this to mean that Loki was not on the brink of death, but not entirely stable either.

This did not comfort him.

It was a wonder that he had managed to fall asleep. It seemed to take hours. After a deep sleep that does nothing to relieve his tiredness and rather increases his irritableness, he opens his eyes to a haze of pink.

Pink flowers. His bed is swamped from all side by pink flowers. His face is a mask of untold horror, and he unconsciously tugs the blanket up to his chin in a childish move of defense. Wait, not only pink flowers. Baby blue and violet ones too. What terror is this?

Avarin, who has dark rings under his eyes, chooses that moment to walk past. At Damian's tortured gasp that is halfway between "Wha?" and "Gurk!", Avarin laughs, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "My dear friend, these are all compliments from your many and varied admir-" Damian glares, and Avarin amends, "-well-wishers."

Avarin's grin widens. "Why, they all come with notes. Let's see this one, from _Lady Laela_, no less", and here he plucks a scented card off the nearest potful of lurid pink blooms, tutting at the high social standing of the sender. Damian is speechless, utterly aghast. Avarin, brimming with merriment, begins to read off the note with a cultured accent that imitates the higher circles, "Dear master tracker, I send my most _ardent_ admiration, having heard about your-" Damian cuts Avarin off with a squeak.

Stifling another laugh, Avarin replaces the card, saying, "I'll stop there, Damian, before I induce post-traumatic stress."

Damian clears his throat, and manages, "Why all these flowers? And why _pink_?"

Avarin smiles. "If you do something great for your king, Damian, then expect some response from the people. It was a brave thing you did. Besides," and the smile turns evil, "It makes you look so much the heroic wounded soldier, surrounded by pink flowers."

Grumbling, Damian says in self-mockery, "How manly." Avarin blinks back at him in a spectacular show of feigned ignorance.

Seeming to recall something, Avarin leans on the footboard of Damian's hospital bed and says airily, "You should thank me. You would not believe how many trainee nurses signed up on your nonexistent dinner duty sheet. You weren't put down for help in the first place, but apparently someone bribed the admin officer for a blank sheet, and the list is currently inexplicably long. I took the liberty of removing it from your patient's file before it overspilled onto a new page. Fifty signatures so far, for the honour of feeding the hero of Asgard."

Damian blanches, and Avarin raps the end of the footboard with the pen in his hand. "Get some more sleep after you eat." He looks at his friend critically. "You still look exhausted."

"How is the prince?" Damian ventures.

Avarin says, "Better. He will live."

Damian breathes a sigh of relief.

A nurse pokes her head out from the private ward and motions. Avarin groans, and leaves for the private ward.

Damian dutifully eats his meal, and then falls asleep.

When he wakes, he knows he must have slept for a long while, for the flowers around him are starting to droop, giving off a sickly-sweet vapour. A chuckle from his right and left alerts him to the presence of his two closest friends, both high-ranking soldiers in the Guard.

"Hey, you look a little worse for wear," comes the laughing comment from one. "Nice flowers," the other one grins. A pile of cards from the well-wishers lie on Damian's bedside table, obviously read and mocked over by the both of them.

"Oh, before I forget," the blonde-haired one says, "did you know that apparently Loki is a – "

Damian is about to protest to their friendly taunts when the door to the private ward opens, and both princes appear. The ward falls into a hushed silence. His friend stops talking immediately, putting a hand over his mouth as if gagging himself. Damian thinks he hears him whisper, "That was close."

Loki leans heavily on his brother, as if his feet remain too weak to fully take his weight. Thor holds Mjolnir with one hand, and with the other he supports Loki. Avarin comes after, shutting the door of the private ward carefully. "Thank you," Loki says to him quietly. Avarin acknowledges this with a low bow.

Damian looks at them as they draw closer.

Loki is dressed lightly in his usual attire, but is noticeably missing any of his heavy daggers and knives that he normally carries. His pale skin is so unnaturally white that it appears translucent, making his emerald eyes seem even greener. His right hand is wrapped in a thin layer of bandages, and lies in simple sling. Even though he has obviously not recovered completely from his injuries, Loki still walks with a light grace.

The ward breaks out into myriad whispers, many averting their eyes from the younger prince. Thor frowns at this, but a sign from Loki stops him from speaking out. He assumes that his brother has no strength to bother with this behaviour, but in reality Loki has another intent.

Loki's steps begin to deviate to his left, and Thor initially thinks that he has lost his balance and pulls him back. But then he sees that Loki is heading towards Damian. The blonde-haired guard beside him looks terrified for some reason, eyes growing wide.

Loki stops by Damian's beside, and indicates that he can stand by himself. Thor reluctantly lets go. Damian looks up at the prince confusedly.

Loki clears his throat, and says, "Your name is Damian, is it not?"

Damian nods, and accompanies it with a quiet "Yes, my lord."

"Thank you, master tracker," Loki says. This elicits a start of surprise on Damian's part, and his eyebrows rise. Loki is not known for his generous gratitude. His friend relaxes from his previous expression of horror.

Loki continues, "My brother and I owe you our thanks. If not for your actions, we may not have survived." A wry smile.

Damian is humbled by his words. "It was my duty, my lord."

Loki holds onto the footboard for support. "Nevertheless, Damian, you have done your duty well. We are in your debt."

And he holds out his hand for Damian to shake. "It will have to be the left hand, I'm afraid," he says lightly.

Utterly baffled by this extension of honour, for a moment Damian can only stare. But the introduction of a hard elbow in the ribs from his friend shakes him into lucidity, and he grasps the prince's hand with his own, noticing with a painful clarity how the little finger is missing. Loki knows he must have noted it, but does not comment, and Damian does not ask.

Thor also looks surprised by his brother's actions, but he too follows with a word or two enquiring after Damian's injuries, which Damian answers with short replies.

Loki then leaves the hospital ward, leaning on Thor again. As the goes out the double doors, he calls over his shoulder, "I hope that cut does not pain you overmuch." And then he is gone with a flash of green cloth.

Out of the silence that faces Damian afterwards, the admiring voice of his friend sounds, "Dude. You're in worse than I thought."

"Yep, you're famous," says the other.

"Shut up," Damian says out of the corner of him mouth, though he is secretly pleased. "Now what was it that you had to tell me?" he asks.

The blonde haired one, still scared from his close brush with a possible conviction of defaming the prince, lowers his voice to finish his sentence.

Damian blinks slowly, taking in the information. His friend's face is glowing with expectation. Damian shakes his head slowly. "Impossible," he says shortly.

Both of them do not spy Avarin's sudden look of alarm, and how he stops his work to listen.

Blondie says impatiently, "It's true."

"Name your source," Damian states.

Blondie leans forward, and whispers conspirationally, "My mother heard it from her friend who heard it from a musician, a guard," Damian rolls his eyes and makes a get-on-with-it gesture. "Wait for it, man! And the guard heard it from a member of the _senior citadel medical team_." Blondie bounces on the spot.

A sound of shattering glass behind them. Avarin holds a broken thermometer in his hand. "What?" he says hoarsely.

Blondie shrugs. "That's what I heard, no offense, sir."

Avarin wipes his hands roughly clean on a towel, straightens his coat with trembling fingers, and announces quietly, "What you hear is complete, absolute fabrication. Watch what comes out of your mouth, soldier, for Loki remains the Allfather's son."

Chastened, Blondie shuts up. But Damian notes how Avarin is unable to hold his gaze, and a kernel of doubt enters his thoughts.

(~~~)

The hallway is dusted with light the colour of warm honey, cast in dusty rays from the large windows that reach from the arched ceiling to the marble floor. There are little strips of shadow between each bright pool of sunlight, but they merely give the hall a patterned effect. As two figures move slowly and surely down the corridor, they seem to fade and sharpen to the watching eye, drifting in and out of a reverie.

As their steps clack down the deserted corridor just outside of the medical ward, Loki says with a sardonic twist in his voice, "Now, don't think it escaped me that it was you who hired Damian. I was going to frighten it out of him – he seemed the sort where torture isn't quite necessary – but considering how you came to know about The Other's little plot so quickly, the lot inevitably fell to you."

Thor rumbles a laugh, and says self-depreciatingly, "It was improper of me. I only thought of your safety, but that does not justify sending spies to watch you."

Loki sighs. "You should be glad that I knew your good intentions. If not, I would have had my revenge long ago." There is a mischevious gleam in his eyes.

Unsure if his brother is jesting, Thor shrugs uncomfortably. A year ago, he would have laughed it off, but many things have changed since then. He settles for a cautious, "And how would you obtain that?"

It is Loki's turn to laugh. "Your worst nightmares are incapable of such imaginings," he says in his carelessly eloquent manner.

"You mean you don't know," Thor puts in. Loki does not answer the jibe, but places more of his weight on his brother, as if the short distance he has walked is already taxing. Thor casts him a concerned glance.

The conversation is lighthearted, but an undercurrent of tension runs between them. They have not yet returned to the easy relationship of the past.

"Can you manage, brother?" Thor asks.

"I'm – fine," Loki growls, "Just help me back to my chambers." He lowers his voice. "The energy required to change back into my normal appearance was more than I previously assumed."

Thor says earnestly, "You should have rested for a longer time, and not put such a strain on your magical core."

Loki snorts. "That medical room was oppressive. And besides, I cannot really wander the halls of the citadel as a frost giant, can I?" A hint of bitterness.

There is a short pause in their conversation. Thor feels the gulf between them widen. Before the chance slips from his fingers, he says what he has always wanted Loki to understand.

"It does not matter to me, nor to father. You are my brother."

Loki smiles mockingly. "Why, so sentimental!" he says. They both wince at the unexpected remembrance of the last time the word passed between them. Loki suddenly wishes he had chosen another word.

Thor returns quietly, "I meant that, brother."

"I know." Loki says this with difficulty, but it is enough. A sense of gratitude emanates from his brother. He does not comment on it, and they walk on in silence, the tension between them eased somewhat. Thor knows that Loki's pride prevents him from saying anything further, and he understands. He does not require anything more in explanation.

"It would be amusing to see the high council's reaction to your appearance, though," Thor adds after a stretch.

Loki answers, "Yes – why, I would think that some of the lords may have an insufficiently healthy heart to bear the shock." He does not ask about the overheard conversation between Odin and Thor.

Brothers again, they laugh together for the first time in months.

(~~~)

The senior medical team, summoned into Avarin's office, slip discreetly away from their posts. Avarin himself is the last to enter, a fake expression of calm plastered on his face. He steels himself for what he has to do next, absentmindedly brushing his hair out of his eyes. At long last, after delayed by half a dozen patients wanting to express their gratitude or discuss something or another, he finally reaches his office and steps in, blue coat nearly catching in the door as he closes it.

He locks the door, and flicks a minor sound-dampening spell at it with one finger.

The five-member senior healing team stands cooped up around his desk, all with their heads drooping in shame. So dejected do they look, any one of them could have been the sorry culprit of the leaked secret. Avarin sighs. This does not make it any easier.

Striding over to his desk, he slaps both his hands flat on the table with a sharp _crack_. Everyone flinches at the sound. For a moment, the ebony strands of Avarin's hair shields his face from sight, and then he raises his head. There is anger, sorrow, and disappointment in his eyes.

He spreads his hands before him in a gesture of hopelessness. "You all know what this is about. I do not know who was so foolish as to allow a sworn secret to Odin to escape from their lips. But I ask you this. What in _heaven's _name were you thinking?" His tone begins quiet, but rises in volume throughout until he is shouting.

The team winces. Avarin throws himself down in his chair with dejected abandon, resting his head in his hands. "I have just now had to teach a young man with a very disrespectful mouth to watch his tongue regarding the prince. If a citadel guard spoke so, I cannot bear to think of what words about the king's family are passing in the taverns, or the side streets."

A nurse with brown tresses falling to her shoulders steps forward gingerly. "I am so, so sorry, Master Avarin," she says, holding back tears, "I had a little too much wine with my friends the other night, and –" Avarin holds up a hand for silence.

"Thank you," he says, "for having the decency to admit your wrong. But the harm is done. I expect the last to receive the news will be the king and his sons. I pray that it is broken gently to the prince especially."

He waves a hand at all of them. "Go," he says, "I am done for." As the nurse is about to leave, she turns for one last pleading look. Avarin rubs his eyes. "I will not tell the king it was you, save if he asks. You know I cannot lie to him." The nurse nods gratefully, and is gone.

Avarin slumps over his table, dreading what is to come.

(~~~)

By the time Loki and Thor make it to the main castle hallway, beads of sweat have broken out on Loki's forehead, and his breath comes in little gasps. Their pace has slowed to a crawl, and the busy corridor is flocked with lords and ladies and servants and noblemen. The crowd would render their progression to a stop – as Loki is incapable of travelling in anything other than a dead straight line, and even that is a struggle – if not for how every person travelling in either direction gives the princes a strangely wide berth. It is as if they had caught some ridiculous infectious disease that makes every person walk just that bit faster when passing in order to limit the time that they are in close proximity to them.

Thor notices how many faces hold pointed looks and expressions of aversion, just as in the medical ward. He wonders at this, for although Loki is far from popular, such hatred is surprising to say the least.

He is startled from his musing by a series of racking coughs from Loki.

Thor could carry his brother the rest of the way, but he knows that Loki's pride would never allow it. It might just as well have the same effect as asking Loki to get on his knees and bow in reverence to his brother – an impossibility.

All the same, he begins to ask anyway, out of an overwhelming concern for Loki's condition. He is stopped by Loki's forced request for a little respite, and they stop by an oak-paneled doorway. Loki leans against the wall, closing his eyes. "I'm fine. Just tired," he whispers shortly. Thor hovers close, fearing that his brother may collapse.

Suddenly, Loki states with a grim finality, "I overheard your conversation with father earlier." Before Thor has a chance to react, he asks, "Why does father need to see the high council? And why do you fear for him? The council usually agrees with whatever he proposes."

Thor grins ruefully. "Not this time, brother."

"Why?" Loki queries.

"Because father is asking for your full reinstatement as a prince of Asgard with all relevant powers and freedom of will as befits your station."

Loki's eyes snap wide open. "So…so soon after my return?" he ventures. The meaning underlying his words is rather why Odin would do such a thing for him.

Thor merely smiles.

Loki is struck by his father's kindness. Never would he have imagined that his father would seek for him to regain what he had thrown behind him on his quest for vengeance so quickly. Nor that he would be forgiven so easily.

The rushing people around him fade into an incandescent background, while other objects, such as the engravings on the door in front on him, sharpen into brilliant clarity.

Tired as he is, his heart dances.

**I hope you guys didn't hate that chapter as much as I did. My beta had to poke me in an attempt to cheer me up. **

**Oh yeah. I made the high council up, out of opportunistic necessity once again. Does Odin even **_**have**_** a high council? I have no idea. He may be an autocratic monarchist, for all I know – "Allfather" suggests that, but basically I think having a high council makes it much more interesting :) There's no guarantee they'll actually **_**listen **_**to Odin about Loki. Oh well. Review please! *Cheeky grin* I love you all :D**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hello again! I give you…the penultimate chapter. Next chapter will be the last, regretfully, although it will be of a decent length in the hope that I will lessen the number of vengeful readers with knives chasing me :) I sincerely hope you all enjoy this chapter, and thank you all for staying with this story for so long. Love you people. XD**

**Reviews:**

**Oh Casanovah: Thank you! Loki is going to have some properly cool moments in this chapter when he finally gets a chance to speak out for himself. Hope you like it!**

**johncorn: Thanks for reviewing, and the encouragement! :)**

**The Pearl Maiden: Why thank you! Avarin is brilliant, I love him, but that unluckily means that I will mistreat him. I always end up mistreating OCs that I like. Pity. :)**

**Child of Hermes: Thank you!**

**Guest: Thank you for the accurate information about Asgard's political system – saved me time thinking overmuch about it XD Thanks and hope you like this chapter!**

**LiesmithLoki: Thanks! And this chapter is when Loki has to deal with those idiot councilmen, so I hope you like the way he does it :)**

**Guest: Yes, Odin really gets judged too much. I think he really loves Loki and just doesn't know how to handle a son that feels betrayed. This fic is all about them learning to mend that relationship. Thank you!**

**** Love Reno: Thank you for both reviews! I hope you didn't mind that I made Loki suffer a bit. But I'm glad you liked it!**

**Right, don't own Avengers, ladidah, do own OCs, especially Avarin :).**

**Onwards! **

**Oh waitwait have any of you watched Henry IV part 1 yet? Part 2 came out BUT I HAD TO WAIT CAUSE I HAD TO FINISH THIS CHAPTER ON TIME gahhhh worst conflicted feels ever =.= Shows how I love you guys too much lol XD**

Here is the chamber of the Asgardian High Council.

The chamber resounds with an understated tremble of age and power. The magnificent arches of hewn stone and carved marble sweep high above, flowing with the easy grace reminiscent of a time before time, like the train of an elven empress' sable raiment frozen in a moment of turning in a dance across the starry hosts.

At first glance, the chamber is open to the yawning depth of the dark coverlet of the heavens, but a gleam, a barest hint of refracted light, and sight and perception shift to reveal the dome of unbroken crystal vaulting high above. Muted reds and glowing trails of iridescent fire mark the roots of the ever-existent Yggdrasil, the ancient tree whose branches mark the realms of past, present, and evermore. The stars glimmer in their glory, a dusting on this curtained canvas of ebony.

The floor of this grave chamber is as smooth as mirrored glass, so that as one steps forward into the midst of a half-circle of a dozen stately chairs, the celestial lights reflected dance about one's feet, as if one is walking on the arc of the night sky itself.

A single word reverberates across the breadth and height of the chamber in which the council is in session.

_Reinstatement…_

Is the word set in stone, proclaimed with a regal head held high, a hand on famed Gungnir, a statement echoed by the ring of acceptance among the dozen high-backed seats?

Nay – more a question. A frail one of rippled unease.

Voices rise and fall in enquiry and answer. The unease is now accompanied by a single tone of rising anger.

And as fiery as the grey eyes are of a father advocating fiercely for his son, the council remains unswayed, albeit in a vaguely embarrassed air.

It is not often that the words of the Allfather fall to nothing.

(~~~)

The main citadel hallway bustles with life, a hundred sounds overlapping and vying for domination, ranging from cultured chatter to highbrow intellectual arguments between academics, servants' gossip and merchants' discussions. The only place of relative quiet is by the oak doorway leading to the apprentice scholar classrooms, where Loki has paused for respite, Thor beside him. The crowd beside them passes unnaturally quickly, with eyes averted and conversations clipped. Whilst Thor only pretends not to notice this slight on his brother, Loki is too tired, and overwhelmed by the revelation of his father's actions to pay attention to the people around him. A slow grin appears upon his pale face and brightens those originally listless green eyes. "Come, brother," he says with a new lightness in his tone, "let us go on."

A pity that this new mood of jubilation is about to be torn away from Loki as fast as it had come.

There is a clatter from far behind the oak doors, a shout of frustration, gales of amused laughter that grow louder as they draw closer to the main hallway. Loki, in the process of shifting his weight for his brother to support, does not realise this, sharp as his ears usually are. A faint call of "Come back, you truanters! Never have I seen such ridiculous behaviour! Come back _at once_, I say!" A chorus of catcalls answer.

At this, Thor looks up, alarmed, and sees how close Loki is to the door. Fearing that he may be too weak to avoid the movement of the great doors, Thor tries to pull his brother back onto the middle of the corridor.

Too late.

A pair of children no older than fourteen burst running through the oak doors, overflowing with delighted mirth at their escape of what is obviously their apprenticed classes. The finery of their dress show their nobility of birth, and the stains and rips in them betray their lack of discipline. Their master, lean and old with age, with eyes that are hard with that particular kind of wisdom gained not only by study but also too much experience with children of the gentry who are not at all genteel, stumbles a certain distance behind them, shaking his fist with fury.

Loki manages to jerk out of the way of the swinging doors, much to Thor's relief. But the children, heads turned to watch the comical gait of their master of boredom, run full pelt into the hands of the injured prince, outstretched in a vain attempt to shield himself. The boys swivel their heads to find a rush of green and gold, and dig their heels into the ground in a hopeless attempt to decelerate.

Prince and students fall into a tumble on the ground, one of the boys landing on Loki's bandaged right arm.

There is a miniscule _crack_, as Avarin's masterly work in setting the bone is all undone.

Loki shouts in pain, gritting his teeth. The corridor falls silent with murmured mutterings of inquiry and many a craned head. As such, Thor's rebuke, rashly said and quite unlike his usual restraint, sounds unnaturally loud on account of his fear for Loki. "_What have you done?_" he roars, leaping forward to help his brother and to inspect his wrist. As Thor touches it, Loki hisses slightly.

If Thor's gaze can ever be described as malevolent, it can be said to be now, as he turns to face the frightened children who have scrambled to their feet, half-poised to run, but frozen in place somehow, as if Thor's eyes are tracker beams made of suppressed anger.

Seeing the prince's expression, most of the gathered crowd carry on, walking fast. The corridor is left uncharacteristically empty. The children wring their hats between their ink-stained fingers, shuffling their feet guiltily. The younger one shivers with fear, cowering under Thor's rage.

The older child stutters, "I – I…"

"Now, now, let them be," comes the soft voice of Loki, who remains sitting on the ground, glancing up at Thor through the black hair that surrounds his face.

This seems to check Thor, who comes back to himself, reminding himself that these are children, not soldiers. Nevertheless, they have hurt his already wounded brother, and that is not easily forgiven.

"Explain yourselves," Thor growls, arranging his features into a marginally less murderous expression.

A pattering of cloth-soled shoes announces the late arrival of the master scholar, who is breathing hard with wheezing gasps. "You miserable excuse for nobility –" he begins, and then stops at the scene before him. Loki cradles his right hand, Thor is crouched over his brother, and the two children are wilting where they stand.

"Oh dear," the scholar says.

"Are you their master?" Thor asks directly.

At the transferal of Thor's attention away from them, the children jolt back into reality and make to sprint away. As they pass by Loki, the younger one whispers, "See? I told you that he wasn't a frost giant."

Thor and the scholar do not hear. But the child suddenly finds a grip of ice fix itself in his forearm. A four fingered hand tethers him there tightly, and the coldness of its touch is mirrored in the eyes of Loki, who has raised his head.

"What did you say?" Loki asks in a voice filled with dreadful uncertainty.

"Nothing, sir," the boy stammers.

"_Do not jest with me, child!_" Loki says, the fear now apparent in his very face.

"There…are rumours of your lordship being a…" the boy swallows. Loki's stare pushes him on. "Frost giant, sir," the boy squeaks.

Something drains out of Loki's eyes. The remnants of a fragile hope, perhaps. His left hand weakens in its hold on the boy and drops away. Somehow he no longer has any strength left, and he bows his head. "Go," he murmurs.

The children scamper away.

Thor dismisses the scholar with a hurried gesture, and as the oak door slams shut, Loki says in a dead sort of way, "Could you carry me the rest of the way, brother?"

Thor understands that he does not want to talk about it – Loki looks tired to his very soul. Why else would he submit to such an indignity of having to be carried by his brother?

With Loki slung over one shoulder, careful not to jostle his injured hand, Thor walks quickly. Loki only makes a sound of initial discomfort, but then becomes unsettlingly quiet.

"We need Avarin to take another look at your hand in your rooms, brother," Thor says.

"We need to talk to Avarin for other reasons," Loki replies, a hard edge to his voice.

(~~~)

Physician Avarin sits in his office with his head in his hands, trying to block the serious migraine that has developed in lieu of recent events. He is expecting a thunderous entrance from the king at any moment, and an accusation of breaking a sworn vow to the Allfather to keep the prince's secret…well, secret. Trepidation burrows a sick feeling into his stomach, and the measured ticking of his ornate wristwatch makes time seem to trickle and pool into passing infuriatingly slowly.

Sighing, he sits up, trying to convince himself to check on a patient or else just _do_ something other than wait for his impending doom.

Tap.

The knock on the door jerks his heart into a fluttering frenzy, a knock that is amazingly restrained for the king. Avarin would have thought that Odin would have hammered, or broken down the door in these circumstances.

Swallowing, he says weakly, "Enter?"

The head that pokes into view wears a helmet. It takes half a second of wide-eyed staring for Avarin to fully comprehend that it is a citadel guard, not the Allfather, and to calm himself enough to stop the blood from roaring in his ears. Consequently, he only comprehends the second half of whatever the guard says.

" – so come to the prince's chambers now."

Blinking, Avarin splutters, "Could you repeat that? I'm a little tired, sorry."

The guard rolls his eyes, and says with barely restrained impatience, enunciating each word, "The princes require an audience due to complications with Loki's injuries. This is an urgent matter, so come to the prince's chambers now, if you please."

So there it is. Not death on the spot, as Avarin had prepared himself for. Rather a forthcoming death sentence. Oh heavens.

Reaching for his coat, Avarin rises and walks out of his office, dismissing the citadel guard. He sets his face into an expression of humble earnestness – for he doubts that he will have the mindset to prepare himself in the presence of the king – and strides towards what he thinks is his inevitable end.

(~~~)

The should-be-familiar sight of his own chambers is strangely unreal for Loki, as Thor deposits him on his reclining chair as gently as possible. After his time in the dungeons and the blurred days in the medical ward, his own rooms seem abnormally normal. The warm midday air drifts in from an open window, and the walls are lit with a pleasant natural light. Loki would have drifted off to sleep right there and then if not for the stinging pain emanating from his wrist. A glance shows that it has swollen to an angry red.

Thor hurries back to the door, calling a servant to bring iced water and a glass of wine. He also calls for a guard to fetch the Master physician. "The wine may help with the pain, brother," he calls back. Loki only nods, examining the intricate patterns thrown by the golden light on the ceiling with a disinterested air. Thor sees this silence as a mark of Loki's rapidly souring mood. "Do you think father has heard of this?" he ventures.

Loki shrugs, and then winces as the motion translates into a spike of pain. The servant's timely arrival with Thor's requests comes none too soon. Thor brings the iced water to the table beside Loki, and begins to help him lower his hand into the cold liquid. Loki bites his lip, but makes not a sound. He breathes out slowly as his hand settles in the water. Thor makes an apologetic sound.

Thor hands him the glass of wine, and Loki takes a tentative sip, making a face. "Why, it's positively warm," he says, making a face.

Thor says, "I can tell someone to bring a new glass."

"Oh no, don't bother," replies Loki with a sarcastic tilt of his head, "It's not really helping to dull the pain anyway." Nevertheless, he continues to drink it, a contemplative look crossing his face. Thor, knowing his brother, frowns and is just about to ask when their father's step is heard outside the door.

The princes can tell just by the angle of Gungnir in Odin's hand and the way his teeth are set that the meeting with the high council did not fare well. Thor asks regardless, "What say the council?"

Odin casts Gungnir aside, and says, "They may have well rejected the proposal completely. They say –" And here he notices the grim mix of pain and anger on Loki's face. "What happened to your hand, my son?" he asks anxiously, coming forward to examine it, although Loki's look prevents him from touching the injured wrist, "It was fine this morning when I left you at the ward."

Loki laughs a bitter, mocking laugh, laced with sorrow and self-loathing. Both Odin and Thor start at the cynicism lining it, even as Loki says in a peculiar tone, "Some children ran straight into me on the way here. By the way my wrist feels, it's been rebroken. The same children were whispering 'frost giant' as they ran. It seems that my _history_ is common knowledge now." He drains the rest of the wine with a gesture, holding the glass out for a refill.

Thor and Odin start back in surprise, for Loki's arm is blue up to the elbow, obviously his answer for the too-warm wine. This small act of rebellion is accompanied by a level glare, as if challenging them to judge him.

Odin is silent momentarily. "I would have that you heard of Avarin's betrayal in a kinder way, my son," he says. "There is no question that the rumours must have originated from the senior medical team. Other than them, only you, I, and your brother know."

"I called for Avarin to come," Thor puts in.

"I will have words with him," Odin says grimly.

Another laugh, this time disturbingly wild, draws their attention back to Loki, who says vehemently, "_Oh, why does that even matter?_"

Odin's concern for his son increases. "What do you mean, my son?"

"Every man, woman, and child in Asgard already has enough reason to hate my very existence without the fact that I am not Asgardian in addition." There are dark shadows under Loki's eyes.

"That is not true," Thor interjects.

"Oh yes, brother, so their worst suspicions as to who this wicked betrayer of both the king and Asgard are all but confirmed. I always knew that what I had done would never pass me by. You tried to convince me otherwise. I deceived myself in turn. There _is_ no hope for me, is there? Destined to be an emblem of hatred."

Odin opens his mouth to tell him otherwise, but Loki speaks on. "Yes, I am now fixed upon every child's mind as the horror that populates their nightmares. How glorious! I wish I had never been born." The last sentence slips out before he can stop its passage from his lips.

The king's head is bowed in thought. Loki smiles sadly, and bends towards his father, saying softly, "It would have been easier that way."

Odin suddenly snaps his head up. "Silence, child!" he says with such authority that Loki is astonished into quiet. "Stop these words that cause nothing but bitterness to you and pain for your father."

Loki's hand that holds the wine glass trembles.

Odin continues in a kinder tone, "Think before you speak. The situation is not unsolvable. You do not know that the people hate you, and similarly you do not know whether your life is worthless. I tell you now that there are very few things in all existence that are worth more to me than you, perhaps none. So end this nonsense."

Loki stares at the wine in his hand, features unreadable. Thor and Odin wait in hope that he does not explode into another emotional tirade.

Then Loki says, "As you wish, father." The sullen note has gone somewhat from his voice. "Is there a way to convince the council?" he asks, changing the subject.

Sighing, Odin mutters, "They may have been swayed a day ago, as a consequence of your actions to save your brother. But the rumours have touched their ears also, and they will not give me a fixed answer until I have confirmed or denied outright whether you are a frost giant."

Thor says, "You may have well have confirmed it by your refusal to answer immediately, father."

Loki sits up suddenly, and says, "Avarin is here." Thor, by unspoken consent, walks outside to receive him. Odin stands once more, reaching for Gungnir.

"Do you wish me to talk to him elsewhere? If you would like to rest after he treats your arm," Odin queries.

"This subject regards me, and I would like to be present."

His father acknowledges this without a word.

The door opens, and Thor appears, expressionless. Avarin comes after, carrying a bag with what he needs, a curious expression of fear and determination on his face. Unable to discern anything from Thor's face, he only has to look upon Odin's to know that all is known.

Hurrying towards Odin, he casts himself to the ground in front of the king, bowing low in sincere misery. "My king…" he begins, "I do not know how to speak my utmost regret and sorrow."

Odin steps forward until the tips of his boots come into the physician's line of sight, Avarin's head bowed inches from the ground. "I have but one question," Odin says gravely, "Was it you who betrayed the sworn vow to me?"

Avarin shakes his head, but does not dare raise it, saying, "No, sire. But I bear full responsibility nevertheless, as they were my subordinates. My wrong is unpardonable, but I beg your forgiveness, my lord." He waits in tempered fear for Odin's verdict.

The boot tips move away from his vision, as Odin turns away. "Get up," he says. Avarin rises, trembling. "I have no power to forgive you, Avarin, for it was not I that you wronged. Similarly, it is not I who will decide what is to be done. You know what to do." Loki, who has been examining his hand pointedly looks up sharply at this. And Odin steps back for Avarin to pass.

Avarin starts at the blue shade of Loki's left forearm. Loki, seeing this, says in a voice dripping with sarcasm, "Surprised, physician? I was merely being practical. This wine is too warm, and I thought about adding some ice from the bowl here, but that appeared rather unhygienic. Besides, considering that _this_" and he nods at his arm, "is widely known among Asgard now, why bother with pretenses?" His eyes flare scarlet, seemingly due to his emotional state rather than a conscious decision.

Regardless, it has the effect of intimidating Avarin into an unsettled state. "My lord," he says earnestly, "I know I am accountable for what has passed. Do what you will with me, I have no words in my defence. If the price of my actions be my life, than so be it."

Loki sighs in a rather exasperated way, placing his now empty wine glass on the table beside him and changing his hand back to a normal hue. "Terribly loyal idiots, the lot of you, aren't you? It was such with Damian. I see that you are no different. I know you meant no harm to my father or I, and what has ensued – no matter how you claim responsibility – was not your direct fault. What is done is done. There is no use for more grief. Punishing you certainly would not cause me any pleasure, nor would it solve the quandary that is my place in Asgard. I have not forgotten your attentive care for my recent injuries. So we will talk no more of this. Father, I thank you." The last words are directed at Odin, in thanks for passing Avarin to Loki's jurisdiction.

This singular act of mercy is so unlike Loki's previous personality that even Thor is moderately astounded. _The events of the past few days have affected him more than I thought_, Thor thinks to himself.

Avarin relaxes, the disappearance of the tension in his features causing him to appear suddenly younger and less careworn. "Thank you, my lord," he says simply.

"I am tired, and in no small amount of pain due to several unruly children in a hurry to escape from class," Loki says with a hint of impatience, "So I would be glad if you did your work quickly, physician."

Slipping gratefully back into his usual demeanor as the master physician, Avarin examines Loki's broken wrist with a careful swiftness that shows his skill. "Pity," he mutters to himself, "was healing perfectly, but I shall have to reset the bone…I am going to have to lay your hand flat, my lord." This he says to Loki, who makes no sign of the pain he must be feeling as Avarin gently manipulates his wrist into the right position.

"I can set it with magic. I can give you something to lessen the pain now, but it would be better to wait until after. It was easier when you were unconscious before."

"It's fine, Avarin. Just do it," Loki says, steeling himself. Odin draws closer and grips his son's shoulder in comfort.

Avarin lays his hands on the injury, taking a deep breath. He looks at Loki for confirmation. Loki nods once, staring straight ahead. Sending ribbons of his magic into Loki's wrist, Avarin wills the fragments of bone to first shift together, and then to meld into a seamless whole.

The bone is set with a crunch that makes Odin flinch in sympathy. Loki cries out, biting his tongue accidentally and tasting the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. Avarin does not pause, but immediately sends another tendril of magic that mutes the pain. This brings Loki considerable relief, and he thanks Avarin for his ministrations.

Loki pokes his wrist gingerly, and smiles when he feels only a twinge in return.

Thor dismisses Avarin, saying, "We have other matters to address."

Avarin takes his leave, indicating that he would come to check on Loki the day after.

The atmosphere in the room darkens considerably after the door closes behind him. "The council still requires an answer, father," Thor says in a matter of fact way, "What are we to tell them? Denial would be futile now that we have missed the chance to reject the rumours on our first realisation of them."

For a while, no one speaks as all think of possible roads of action.

Then a voice breaks the silence. "What path do you wish to take, Loki?" asks Odin, "I will not decide for you. This is your life, and your identity. There are times when even as your father I cannot presume to make a choice for you. The decision is yours."

Loki smiles in acceptance and gratitude. His eyes unfocus, as if contemplating a deep struggle within himself. Then he looks his father and his brother straight.

"We proclaim the truth. We tell the council all," he announces.

Thor cannot help but exclaim, "You are prepared to allow father to tell the council that you are a frost giant? Are you certain that this is a correct judgment? Confirmation of your identity?"

Loki raises a finger. "Forgive me. I should have been clearer in my speech. Father will not inform the council. _I_ will."

Odin says, "They will plague you with many questions, and you have not the strength to answer them. Is it not wiser for me to fight this battle for you, just this once?"

A determined air flickers in Loki's eyes. "I am not a child," he answers, "nor am I now that hapless infant that you, father, brought out of Jotenheim that day. I will not hide behind my father's cloak like a coward when there is no option but to speak the truth. I will walk in front of the high council of Asgard, and defend myself by my own words alone."

There is a hint of pride in Odin's voice when he says, "I am sorry, Loki, for the pain that my decision to withhold your true self from you all these years will still cause. Will you allow Thor and I to be present at the council, to support you if we can?"

"I would like that, father," Loki says.

Thor asks the obvious question. "When then shall we meet with the council?"

Loki groans, and with great effort, hobbles by himself to the bed. "We shall go as soon as I am able. Before the sun is set."

Thor nods, and after grasping Loki's hand once, turns and leaves to inform the council. Loki yawns, smiles at his father, and promptly falls asleep, his injured hand resting beside him.

Odin's mouth is set in a stern line, for he dreads what is, and must, come.

(~~~)

_It is immensely interesting how every aspect of the council chambers have been constructed to intimidate._ So thinks Loki, as he strides into the midst of the full council. The setting sun is a distant flare past the citadel pinnacle, the skies a glorious spread of starspun fire. The blend of scarlet and orange suffuses down from the crystal arc above the chamber, and the reflective ground is similarly alit with flame the licks the feet of those that walk on the surface, twisting tongues that flicker and surround you in a living hell composed of fire above and fire below.

Maybe sundown isn't the most apt time to face a council session.

Loki, caught by the first glance into this room of flame, pauses at his own reflection on the plane of the ground. He does not remember his face ever before so determined, accentuated somehow by the thin scar of a knife cut across one high cheekbone, nor is he used to seeing his right hand bound and his left with but four fingers twitching with a well-hidden tension that is absent from the hard mask that is his face.

Then he recollects himself, and raises his eyes to see the high council members enthroned on a dozen chairs before him, elevated on a shallow platform so that tall as Loki is, he has to tilt his head ever so slightly upwards, as if addressing a superior. This irks him, but he quells the emotion.

Loki had required Thor's support on the way to the council chambers, but at the door, he had summoned what strength he had and stood tall as his name had been announced and the doors were opened.

And a faintest half-smile touches his face as he looks upon the twelve sombre members of the council, his fingers tapping a gentle, tripping beat on his crossed arms.

If the aged men are surprised that it is Loki who walked first through those doors and not Odin, they do not show it. Prince and council regard each other momentarily. Then the one that sits at the council's zenith shifts, and asks, "Why are you here, Loki Odinson?"

Loki laughs, closing his eyes for a second. "Why, you think that I would not be present at an inquiry whose very subject is myself? You speak the obvious! And so I will not grace that question with an answer." He taps his foot lightly, the very picture of unconcerned calm.

"Do not presume that you have the authority to use that tone. You are not yet prince again by law." A dozen pairs of eyes bore into Loki. Odin, standing behind with Thor, snorts in disgust.

Loki snaps into a dangerous glare, hand touching the long knife by his side. "And you, my dear lords," he says quietly, "should know your place. You all disgraced your position and your age by the way you conducted yourselves this day against my father. You have not given him the respect he deserves. And as his son, I shall in turn give you none."

"But _are_ you his son? That is the question," a man with brown hair streaked with grey, younger than the rest of the council, abruptly asks.

Loki relaxes, passing from a threatening aspect to careless abandon in an instant. "I come before you today with two motives. First, to reassert my claim to be a prince of Asgard. Secondly…" He grins. "To answer my most gracious lord's question."

Holding the unsettlingly pleasant grin on his face, he reaches inside his magical core and flicks the switch that allows him to appear Asgardian.

Navy blue washes over his pale skin, even as his eyes glow scarlet. He hears Thor scoff at his brother's shameless penchant for mischief.

The twelve members of the high council gasp as one, half nearly falling out of their seats, some with eyes wide and mouth gaping, and the head of the council raises a shaking finger at Loki, saying in a shuddering voice, "You…you…"

Loki sighs and with barely an eyeblink, allows the blue to melt away into his usual appearance. "Yes, yes, I am a frost giant by birth," his tone implying that it is of little importance, "but of Asgard by name, heart, and blood. What I look like does not affect the fact that Odin is my father, and I am his son. What else do I need to be granted the position of prince of Asgard?" His eyes seem to dare the council to disagree.

The head councilor shifts his gaze tremblingly to Odin. "You knew about this?" he asks. "You allowed _him _to grow up in the halls of this ancient citadel?"

Odin takes two steps, and slams the end of Gungnir into the ground. The council flinches. "Watch your words carefully, councilor!" Odin barks, "You are talking about my son. I knew from the moment I found him on Jotenheim. I chose not to make him known, even to himself. He is a prince. That is unquestionable."

An old man with a wispy white beard, brow furrowed, says, "Perhaps. Perhaps he is the prince by argument. But we cannot have a frost giant in line for the throne of the nine realms. It is unfeasible. What you ask is simply impossible."

"But he is not in line for the throne." The voice echoes across the chamber. Thor joins his father and Loki in the center of the room. "I am."

Before they have a chance to answer, Loki continues, "I have lived all my life in Asgard, believing that I am Asgardian. Would that change now, just because my appearance is not so naturally? Asgard is my home. What can you say against this?"

The council emanates silence, unable to think of a logical reason of opposition. With Loki fully admitting his real identity, there is no fallback of inquiry based on suspicion. They are well and truly cornered.

"But – your recent conduct!" fumes a councilor, face reddened and spitting out his words in a whirl of frustration.

Loki says gravely, "Yes. That was my wrong alone. I know what I have done, and I regret my actions deeply. But I have changed now. I am willing to serve my position as prince."

Odin speaks. "My son gave a finger and risked his life to save his brother. Is that not proof enough of his loyalty?"

Another period of tense silence.

Then the younger councilor with greying hair says, "My son speaks highly of you."

Loki tilts his head. "Your son?" he asks, eyes narrowed.

"Yes, I have a son. His name is Aidan."

Loki smiles a true smile, and asks, "Ah, little Aidan! The child who dreams of heroes and knows not that he already is one. How fares he? I did not have a chance to see him after I handed Damian over to his care."

The councilor seems pleased with Loki's reply. "Aidan is well. He speaks of you often. Let me ask you this," and he descends from his chair and walks until he is in front of Loki, "Would Asgard be a safe, happy place for my child with a prince like you? Be truthful with me."

Loki looks him straight in the eye, and for the first time sees traces of Aidan's curious expression in the man. "Yes," he states, clear and uncomplicated.

The councilor smiles ruefully, and throws his hands up. "What more do I have to ask?" He turns to the council. "What more do we have to say?"

The head councilor looks at Loki through the steepled tips of his fingers, and says, "Fine. On one condition."

"Name it," Loki states.

"The knowledge of your identity becomes known to Asgard at large."

It is Thor who steps forward in anger, shouting, "What is this you ask? My brother has told the council everything. It is beneath you to ask this of Loki, to seek to humiliate by brother in this way!"

A restraining hand on his arm stops his outburst. Loki regards the council calmly. "So be it. But my father will be the one to announce it to the people."

Thor turns to Loki with a look of amazement. But he finds not a shred of regret or fear in Loki's visage.

Aidan's father smiles approvingly. "What then say the council on the Allfather's request? All in favour say aye."

Five or six say "aye" straight away, a few others give "ayes" that are more like tentative mumbles, and finally, the head of the council, staring at Odin, too whispers, "aye".

Aidan's father returns to his seat, the head councilor stands, and in a grave tone says, "Therefore the council names you, Loki Odinson, first of that name and second son of Odin, once more prince of Asgard, second of that station, with all the powers and rights that the position requires. Council adjourned." He turns back to his seat with a flick of his cloak.

And as Loki turns to leave the chamber, his father on his right and his brother on his left, he leaves as the reinstated prince of Asgard, with head held high and a contented smile of victory.

**Well, there you have it. Prince once more! Next chapter will be up on time in 8 or 9 days, and will be set not only in Asgard…hint hint. I hope you all liked that, and I will now dance crazily off to watch Henry IV part 2. Love you all. Oh and no spoilers please in the comments, but DO tell me how much you love Prince Hal :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Right. Here we go, the last chapter! I want to thank all of you that have stayed with this fic from beginning to end, I just love all of you and I couldn't have finished it without you guys, and my super-brilliant beta – my psychic twin, Eirian Erisdar. You should all read her fics, they're absolutely wonderful. I beta her fics, and she betas mine :) I hope you think this is a satisfactory ending, and I shall miss you all. It's been a great experience as a first-time fanfictioner, and I give you all hugs for everything you've done.**

**Reviews:**

**Child of Hermes: Thanks! And thank you for being one of my long-term reviewers XD**

**Guest: Thank you for reviewing, and I have to say, I didn't enjoy part 2 very much at all, except for the last third. But thank you so much – and did you sign off as Loki, of all people? Haha :)**

**Guest: Well, at least the description had the desired effect :D Thank you, and I hope you enjoy this last chapter!**

**Lady Charity: Oops! I didn't even know there was a movie category, oh bother. *Awkward* Oh well, thank you for reviewing, and have a good summer!**

**** Love Reno: Oh, that would have been awesome – everybody would have a "wha?" face on while Loki twiddle his *fake* mustache hahaha. Thank you so much, *hugs*!**

**OhCasanovah: You have my deepest gratitude for being my most encouraging reviewer all this time. I thank you, truly. You get a shower of hugs *sniff* :)**

**Altamiya: I'm sorry you were disappointed, but I hope you like this chapter. As for my plans afterwards… maybe one or two oneshots about Loki as a child, up to no good with Thor and his friends. Depends on whether I have time, with university apps and all that annoyance in the autumn term. Thank you so much for staying with this fic for so long!**

**Floofy Fantal: Hah! Can't wait to see you back from Canada, oh, and I'll be reading more of Tsubasa now that I don't have this fic taking up my time :) Thank you for taking the time to read this when I know you probably have more work than I do :) Oh, and angst galore. Wonderful ehehehe *evil grin* Love you, and watch the Dark Knight Rises so I can talk to you about it :)**

**I don't own Avengers – but I do own all the OCs that have popped out of my brain during the whole of this fic. Now, onwards, for the final charge! **

The afternoon sunlight drifts lazily down, suffusing through the air and delving some ways into the arched tall doorway that is the southern entrance to the citadel structure, marking the line between soft shadow and bright radiance. The light carries dust that sparkles and circles through the rays, and sounds of the main southern road a distance below the raised citadel.

A faint hint of birdsong lingers in the drowsy breath of wind that flutters from the castle gardens, barely detectable. The flowers are in bloom, and their fragrance also flows in the wind that makes this particular afternoon warm, but not uncomfortably so.

The same sunlight falls upon the terraces of the citadel, the windows of the corridors, and the desks of the scholarly apprentices, children whose hearts wander from studying and dream of games outside, until the sharp rap of the master's frustrated cane jolts many into momentary attention once more.

On such a day as this, none feel like working especially hard, for all work seems tiresome.

The two guards standing in their allocated positions on either side of the great double doors of the southern entrance suffer from the same soporific effect. Usually at attention with backs straight, focused on what is ahead, today they stand relaxed, long, elegant spears held loosely in easy fingers. One's eyes are glazed over with the beginnings of sleep, and the other with a dazed reverie. Every ten minutes or so, one shakes his head in a heroic attempt to stay awake and alert. The other, following his lead, rolls his neck and glares straight forward, as if the strength of his will could somehow overcome his overwhelming inclination for a siesta.

Then they both slip back into their sleepy half-awareness, and this will all repeat itself. Of course, they know that they could be classified as neglecting their duty. But who would care? On such a lovely day as this, anything can be excused. Besides, most Asgardians have abandoned official work for the day, and the corridor is empty.

The guard on the left slowly tips backward until his shoulders are resting on the sun-drenched wall, supporting most of his weight. A minute later, soft whiffling snores drift out of his helmet. The guard on the right's head droops onto his chestpiece, and his spear threatens to slip out of his grasp.

Distracted, and underperforming their guardly duties, they fail to register the soft footsteps sounding from within the hallway, feet that stop on the very boundary between shadow and radiant sunlight. The pair of booted feet hesitates, and almost turns back. Then comes a noise of muffled determination, and Loki strides out into the brightness, dressed in green and gold, a light cape around his shoulders, head bare, his right arm in a simple sling. The pupils of his green eyes constrict in the glare as he makes his way silently towards the southern entrance.

Five steps from the doors, he notices the unnatural stillness of the two guards. They make not a single movement as he approaches. Tilting his head, he purposefully makes his footsteps louder, assuming that the guards are insufficiently trained to hear his soft tread.

Still no response.

_Why, they're asleep, while guarding my father's castle!_

A hand touches the hilt of a decorated dagger, and taps the pommel thoughtfully. Then Loki decides that it isn't really necessary to use that to frighten them. His very presence should be enough, considering what they now know about his true identity.

Walking until he is parallel to the sleeping guards, Loki proceeds to clear his throat delicately.

The guards jerk awake, feet stumbling, gasping in surprise at finding themselves asleep. The guard that was leaning on the wall bangs his head painfully against the stone surface, and rubs the back of his helmet with a strangled gasp. The other is so shocked that the already loose grip on his spear loosens further, allowing its barbed tip to veer dangerously close to Loki's face. Loki makes a sound of distaste and swivels elegantly aside, the sharp metal passing before him harmlessly.

"Sorry!" squeaks the guard.

"Helmets off," Loki orders conversationally.

They hurriedly comply, tucking their helmets under their arms, reveals two chastened faces reddened with shame.

"Your names, gentlemen, guards who were neglecting to guard?" Loki says.

"Eain, my-my lord," the one on the right stammers. His blonde hair is meticulately tamed.

"Saret, sir," the other says, quaking where he stands.

Loki narrows his eyes at them. Their fear seems disproportional to their wrong. It is not only disapproval for their actions that causes them terror. It is disapproval from _whom_ that strikes horror into their hearts – they fear an unworldly penalty from a frost giant.

Loki's silence sends the two guards into further spasms of dread. "Damian's friends, are you not?" he suddenly asks, "You were those that were visiting when I left the ward."

"Yes," they both stutter.

Sighing, Loki says, "I should advise Damian to chose friends of better quality." Eain and Saret blanch at this, bracing for some form of horrific Jotun punishment.

Loki somehow finds their unconditional fear irrepressibly irritating. "Oh, for heaven's sake, do you possess a single iota of courage? Stand up, and stop shaking. I am not about to murder you both in cold blood."

"You're…not, sir?" Saret squeaks.

Loki laughs mockingly. "No, I'm not going to turn my hand into an ice blade and slit your throats. Terrible waste of time and effort."

Eain all but squeals in horror, eyes growing unnaturally wide.

Loki makes an exasperated noise. "Oh heavens, you weren't ready for that, weren't you?" he mutters to himself. Obviously they are incapable to recognising that he wasn't being serious when he had made that comment. _How long is it going to be before the people of Asgard realise that I mean them no harm?_

By the looks of these two, a long time.

"Listen." The guards snap to attention. "I will not report this incident to your superior, nor my father. You are not to slacken in your duties from now on. I have allowed this to pass once. Do not expect me to be merciful again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" The guards hold expressions of barely disguised wonder at the prince's leniency.

Flicking a hand at them, Loki says, "Carry on." Then he turns to walk towards the southern gate at the foot of the hill. The guards scramble back into position, knuckles white on their weapons.

Once his back is turned on them, Loki allows himself a small smile. As the first indication of Asgard's response to his father's revelation of his true nature, abject fear is better than the deep-rooted hate he had been expecting. Fear can be changed over time, with good conduct and kindness. Hate would have been harder to remove.

Loki had been relatively sheltered from Asgard's reaction for a week, as he was confined to his rooms for that period both for medical and logical reasons. Without knowing how the people would take this newfound piece of information regarding their prince, Odin had announced the news by sending runners throughout Asgard, instead of publically pronouncing it. He and Thor had then persuaded Loki to keep to his rooms until the chaos calmed somewhat.

Thor's face was grim for the first few days, no matter how he had tried to hide it under a layer of forced cheerfulness as he had visited Loki with Avarin, who performed checkups on his health. Loki had assumed the worst, but did not amass the courage to ask outright the people's view. As the days passed and he had slowly regained his strength, he had begun to think of venturing out of his chambers, but Avarin's dedicated care and his father's protectiveness had provided him with an excuse to prolong his seclusion. He feared what the truth would be, and only today has stepped out of the citadel for the first time.

His intent is to visit Aidan, since he did not have a chance to thank him for his help after handing Damian to his care all those days ago. A few discreet inquires had given his home address to be on the southern road, and Loki had not informed Aidan's father that he intended to visit. Too much pomp and circumstance seemed tiring, and pointlessly formal. He would try to catch Aidan alone.

The encounter with Saret and Eain calms him somewhat, but as he approaches the busy traffic of the main southern avenue, the irrational worry that every glance would somehow be hostile worms its way into his mind. As he steps onto the busy street, the chatter of merchants and tradesmen, children and nobles around a certain radius from where Loki stands fall instantaneously silent. Loki ignores this, head held high and steps purposeful.

Thankfully, the bubble of silence trips haltingly back into nearly full volume when he has passed. Turned heads and questioning eyes revert back to their discussions, albeit with a more careful tone. Loki sighs internally in relief.

But his relief is short lived, for he then realises that the quiet halt in conversation follows where he walks. As he approaches, groups of people stop and glance at him with a curious sort of distrust, and as he leaves, they gingerly regain their speech. But for Loki, no matter how fast nor slowly he travels, the silence seemingly remains with him.

A hundred yards of this is sufficient to set him in a foul mood, and, unable to withstand their gazes any longer, he melts into a deserted side street and springs agilely up the walls, grasping the top with his left hand and hauling himself up with less grace than normal onto the roof of the nearest structure. Smiling ruefully, he looks at his sling. Not using his right hand is troublesome, but not a complete impediment. Traveling on the tops of the roofs would be faster, and a more solitary route than the main street. If he keeps away from the edge of the houses, no one would notice him from road level.

Dusting himself down from the climb up the wall, Loki runs forward, flipping to each structure in elegant grace, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground. He chooses the easiest jumps that do not require handholds, to be careful that his injured right arm would not be his downfall. As he flits from roof to roof, he passes through countless snapshots of people's lives – clothing lines, weaved chairs and tables, a carefully tended vegetable patch. He unconsciously accelerates his passage, for he does not want to run into a homeowner and be accused of trespassing on property.

Midway between leaping for the next building, he catches a glimpse of a dignified house ahead, no doubt Aidan's home. The sight causes him to crane his head slightly, affecting the arc of his flight. Too late, he realises his mistake, but he knows he cannot make the edge of the roof speeding towards him.

By pure luck, his feet land on an extremely narrow iron bracket extending outwards over a gap, to which is attached a basket of dead flowers, long neglected. Half a moment's flailing allows him to regain perfect balance. Laughing a little at his own ineptitude, he rises into a half-crouch, then halts as the iron bracket shakes under his weight. Biting his lip in concentration, he tries to rise into a standing position, but the iron beneath his feet screams in a shriek of metal. The rusted bolts that hold the bracket to the wall loosen begin to come away.

Loki curses under his breath and flings himself towards safety, but the metal gives away under him, and he tumbles downwards. Desperate, he casts his left hand out towards the smooth wall, grasping for a handhold and finding none. He braces himself for impact.

But he suddenly finds himself still hanging by his left hand and not in a heap on the ground from the should be inevitable fall. Looking up, he sees his hand blue up to the wrist, and completely covered in ice, ice that has conveniently frozen his hand to the remains of the metallic fixture.

Tilting his chin at this new marvel, he vaults upwards, landing lightly on both feet on the edge of the roof. Raising his hand to the sun, he watches as the ice fades and his hand returns to its normal colour. _Interesting._ That particular ability could prove useful. The strange occurrence perturbs him less than it would but days ago, for he is slowly but surely learning to accept who, and what, he is.

Two easy bounds takes him to the brink of the roof, and he crosses the few remaining gaps between the houses, until he lands on the rooftop next to Aidan's residence, rolling to dissipate the impact. As he comes up, he sees that the owner of the structure keeps a beautiful collection of a variety of blooms, lovingly tended.

As he prepares to jump down to ground level to search for the whereabouts of the little boy, he hears a child's voice, sharply raised, in the street below. Approaching the edge and peering over carefully, he smiles at the sight he sees.

Aidan stands on a small wooden crate, addressing a motely group of boys of varied ages, some from the higher echelons of society by their dress, and others by their ragged clothing merely wandering street thieves attracted by the spectacle. The crowd emanates jeering catcalls and mocking shouts, and Loki has to concentrate to hear Aidan's piping voice say, "I tell you, Loki isn't what you say! Why else would he tell everyone who he really is? That in itself proves it!"

Loki falters as he realises that Aidan is publicly defending him among a small mob of children, some boys more than twice Aidan's age. If the situation were to become violent, Aidan would not be in an advantageous position. Although Loki is beyond pleased by the child's actions, a small spike of worry appears in his thoughts. He readies himself to intervene if need be.

Loki looks on as a tall boy swaggers to the front of the crowd and jauntily says, "What do you know, rich boy? Anyone with any sense would know that frost giants are not Asgardian. They are monsters, inhuman, senseless. Now shut up and get out of here. Keep your stupid ideas in your stupid head." A chorus of approving whistles and applause follow this little speech.

Aidan, whose blonde hair barely reaches the level of this boy's chest, regardless of the fact that he is standing on a crate, is understandably intimidated. His eyes shine with a wetness that cannot be solely attributed to determination. But his mouth is set in an unwavering line, and he flings his chin up so that his entire diminutive height is maximized, and hisses, "I know the prince. He may be a frost giant, but that doesn't mean that he's a bad person."

Loki grins. So absorbed is he by this scene that he does not notice the slight creaking of the rooftop door as an old man with an immaculately cropped white beard and a crooked back steps out, hand holding a metal watering can for his beloved flowers. Nor does he see the old man start at the sight of the prince of Asgard perched on the edge of his roof. The man sidles to the side and also bends over to look down at Aidan. He sets his gardening can on the ground. "He's a good kid," he says warmly.

Loki jerks back violently, alarmed by the sudden sound. His unease at not noticing the presence of another person on the rooftop shows momentarily on his face. Then he catches a glint of wise humour in the eyes of the old man, and is reassured. "Yes, he is," he replies simply. Down below, a small stone flies from the crowd and strikes Aidan on the cheek, causing a bruise to blossom. Loki tenses, hand on a dagger. "Don't be a fool, Aidan," he whispers through his teeth.

The old man shrugs, beginning to water the flowers. "It takes time to learn that choosing a battlefield in which retreat is a viable option is a wise decision," he says. Loki nods, gazing at Aidan concernedly.

"And what do you think?" Loki asks abruptly, turning to face the old man, gesturing at the group of children below. The hopeful air is suppressed warily under a pretense of indifference.

The old man is quiet, and then says, "I have lived many years. I say that what I believe about you will depend on how you act in the near future. Who you are depends on your actions, not who you are born as. Oh, and if you can manage it, don't ruin my flowers." Without another word, he disappears down the stairs.

A corner of Loki's mouth turns upward as he looks down at Aidan and the children once more.

Aidan stamps his foot and continues defiantly, "Just because he isn't Asgardian by birth doesn't mean he can be any less a hero –"

The tall boy laughs, cutting Aidan off and triggering an echo of sniggers behind him. "What do you, little man, know about being a hero?" he asks menacingly, looming over Aidan, who to his credit does not flinch.

"What I am saying," Aidan says, lip trembling but eyes still fierce, "the prince is more worthy to be of Asgard than all of you are. You have no right to judge him."

The tall boy's glare turns dangerous. "What did you say?" he asks, barely whispering.

Aidan shrinks. "You…heard me?" he squeaks. He knows that it is the wrong answer a half second later, when the more intelligent of the rich boys in the crowd scatter away, and the remaining children, all older than Aidan, creep forward to surround him.

"F-Father!" he cries towards the shut windows of his house, in a useless attempt to call for someone from his household to save him. Predictably, no one answers. The boys close in, their shadows creeping up to shadow Aidan's face. Rough leather slings and crude knives made of bits of sharp metal appear in a dozen hands.

Aidan cowers and shuts his eyes, waiting in the blackness behind his eyelids for pain to come.

None does. There is a swish of cloth from overhead, and a metallic rasp of a dagger drawn of far higher quality than the makeshift blades that the street children hold. A familiar voice sounds. "Dear children, you are harassing a friend of mine. It would be a sensible decision to leave, now, and never show your faces again. I would tell you what would happen if you did, but I do not think that is necessary. Do you?"

A scuffle of scampering feet. Aidan warily blinks open his eyes, to see the laughing face of Loki, who is sheathing a single dagger. The ragged boys are nowhere in sight. Aidan can only gape. "I – I" he mumbles incoherently.

Loki extends a hand and takes Aidan's small one in his own, pulling the child to his feet. "Thank you, little man, for defending me," he says, examining the bruise on Aidan's cheek with uncharacteristic care.

Aidan finally finds his voice. "I only thought that they were wrong in assuming things that they did not know," he says honestly but timidly. His blue eyes are as innocent as ever.

"They were," Loki says with a tinge of sadness, crouching down so that his face is level with Aidan's, "but although that was brave of you, it was also an unwise decision to make an enemy out of those you cannot fight." Aidan nods, embarrassed. Loki continues, "So promise me, Aidan, that you will not challenge anyone for my sake until you are sure that success is in your hands. If I had not thought to come and see you precisely on this day, you may have been seriously injured on my account. I could never forgive myself for that. Do you understand? Besides, your father would almost certainly come after me."

Aidan nods again, and gives an uncertain grin, saying, "You know Father?"

"Yes, we have met," Loki says. "Now, I want thank you properly for your bravery in helping Damian that day, and your actions after in delivering the message to the captain of the Guard. You did Asgard a great service that day. You should be proud."

Aidan's mouth forms an "o" of surprise, but his little mind has the capacity to work out that the prince of Asgard is thanking him in person. He cannot, however, think of how to respond. He just stands there, eyes wide, hoping that Loki would grasp his gratitude.

Loki seems to understand, and merely looks down and smiles. As he stands up again, he says, "Now run along to your father. I have somewhere else to be. Take care of yourself, little man." He shakes Aidan's hand, as if warrior to warrior.

"Where are you going, sir?" Aidan's inquisitive voice pipes up from behind him, as Loki turns to go. Loki looks back, and waves. "Why, Midgard, Aidan!" he calls, and with a flash of green, is gone again to the world of rooftops and wind.

Aidan stands alone on the soapbox for a moment, and then skips towards the grand house gaily, eager to tell his mother of Prince Loki's visit.

(~~~)

The cloudless sky arcs a pale, clear blue over Manhattan, the voices and sounds of a million humans and busy traffic rising gently into the still afternoon air. The sun shines brightly overhead, its scintillating rays glancing off the extravagant tip of Stark Tower, shining rather harshly on the tired forehead of a particular Dr. Banner who crouches next to a miniaturized Arc Reactor on the penthouse balcony, fiddling with pieces of metal. He wipes the sweat off his brow as he finishes the final few touches, and calls back into the new renovated penthouse, "Did he happen to tell you the exact reason for this sudden visit to Earth? New monsters and horrors from his home to tell of? Another impending attack on our planet?"

Within the lavishly decorated room, three people sit around a table selected with what can only be Pepper's signature taste, while a fourth, standing at a specially set bar, armed with sunglasses and a narcissistic personality, shouts back to Banner, "Nope," popping the "p". "Fury just informed Jarvis that Thor would be visiting. Didn't even have the courtesy to tell us himself."

Natasha looks up at this from a deep conversation in undertones with Clint over a game of chess, calls out, "But then, when has Director Fury ever bothered to give us anything other than the barest information?"

"Touché," Tony replies, saluting her with his vodka glass. Then he catches sight of Steve poking at an electronic interface with a vaguely mystified air, and hurries to snatch it from his hands, with a quick "Hey! Don't touch my stuff. I would sooner hand it to a bunch of monkeys than you. They would be less likely to cause a system crash like the last time Jarvis let you access it."

Jarvis' refined tones sounds out, "To be fair, sir, he did accidentally press the specific combination out of a possible fifty thousand to turn my firewall off."

"My point exactly," Tony says.

Steve does not look offended, but rather takes the chance to say, "I don't think it's anything particularly serious, or else we would have been ordered to fall in. Has it occurred to you that Thor may not have been particularly specific in the first place?"

Clint pokes his queen gingerly forward, and groans when Natasha swoops in with a bishop to take it. Natasha flashes a triumphant grin, showing a rarely jubilant side of her personality. Clint sighs, and flicks his king over in surrender. "Give the guy a break," he says, "for all you know, he may be taking a holiday from his neurotic brother. Who knows how he managed to grow up with a psycho like that."

Steve shrugs in reply.

Tony goes to where Banner is. "You done with that? Thor's due to connect the bridge in less than five minutes." He sticks his ridiculously expensive watch in Bruce's face.

Face holding an expression of restrained annoyance, Bruce says, "Nearly. But it would be done faster if someone talked less and got out of my way." There is something dangerous lurking in his kind eyes behind those glasses slipping down his nose. Tony backs off, holding his hands up in mock defeat. "Done," Banner says, standing up and dusting off his hands.

As he walks back to the penthouse, wiping his glasses clean, the reactor begins to pulse a faint blue light, whirring into a constant hum of life. Banner sits in one of the armchairs with a tired sigh. Tony, as if not noticing his present state of exasperation, claps his hands together and goes behind the bar, rummaging in the racks below and disappearing from view. His voice says, "You know, I have just the thing. I was in Barcelona, and Pepper was elsewhere – I might have lost track of her somewhere between the hotel and the business district – and I ran into the most beautiful cocktail on the planet in a seedy pub –"

"You know what?" Steve calls, "I don't want to know how sick you ended up being."

Tony pops back up, his back to the glass windows and the vibrating reactor outside in the sun. With an armful of assorted alcohols and, cocktail mixer in hand, begins to shake up a cocktail, tasting it supposedly to check the balance of the mix but doing it rather more often than is convincingly appropriate. Most of the bottles end up being drunk instead of mixed. "Nearly there," he says with a condescending connoisseur's air, at which Steve scoffs.

The reactor behind Tony suddenly glows a more vibrant shade of blue than before, the frequency of its buzzing increasing. "He's coming," Clint says to the room at large.

"Just in time for a drink," Tony says, pouring out the final product into a tall-stemmed cocktail glass. "Voila," he proclaims with terribly accented French.

The others watch as the reactor flashes a violent shade of sapphire, and a thin beam of light so intense it nearly appears solid fires outwards, splashing into a thin film ten feet in front. A second after, Thor's broad-shouldered figure appears out of the writhing steam, crimson cloak around his shoulders and Mjolnir in his hand. His face seems oddly sombre.

Tony hears his heavy step, and calls, "Welcome back, Shakespeare."

A chorus of similar greetings ring out, but they all die abruptly into deadly silence. Tony, whose back is turned, looks at the others' faces and says conversationally, "What, has he come on a bad hair day?" He turns, cocktail glass in hand.

Just in time to see Loki step out from behind his brother.

"Whoa!" Tony cries, spilling the just-made cocktail over the floor. "Jarvis!" he cries, and the elegantly toned lighting turns red, indicating that defensive weapons are primed. Bruce jerks back, startled. Steve freezes, half-rising from the couch. Clint curses loudly and darts in front of Natasha protectively. Natasha, on the other hand, whips out a handgun from the back of her belt with frightening efficiency, leveling it directly at Loki's heart, not a shred of hesitation on her face.

Loki frowns, looking from their reactions to his brother with slight confusion. Thor smiles, and says, "Now, now –"

"Oh heavens, you didn't tell them, did you?" Surprisingly, it is Loki that interrupts him. Glaring heatedly at his brother, Loki runs a hand through his hair, exasperation tingeing his tone. "You didn't tell them that I was coming. How inexpressibly intelligent of you. What else could I expect?"

"It may have slipped my mind, brother," Thor laughs good-naturedly, "no harm done."

Loki's irritation surfaces. "_No harm done?_ That woman," he points a elegant finger at Natasha, "would have shot me immediately if you had not stepped out of the bridge before I!"

"Excuse me," Natasha says in a sweet voice laced with venom, "_That woman_ is about to put ten rounds in your head if _you_," and this is directed at Thor, "do not explain why he is here right this second." Her voice is shaking slightly, prompting Clint to move even farther in front of her. She ignores this and steps to the side so that Loki remains in the gunsight.

"Yes, sorry to break up the sibling rivalry, but I for one would very much like to know whether you are here to kill us." Tony has surreptitiously moved closer to the glass case in which his Iron Man suit lies, and his jokey manner does not reach his hard eyes.

Thor finally grasps the tension of the situation, and says more seriously, "No, he is not. My brother has come to apologise."

Thor's words hang in the air, and Loki winces inwardly at how unconvincing they sound, even to himself. Loki moves forward, but barely takes two steps before Natasha cocks the gun, an ominous click that stops him where he is.

Raising his hand carefully in a placating gesture, Loki says carefully, "You can see that I am not armed with any form of weapon. Please let me speak." He gazes unblinkingly at them, talking slowly and deliberately.

Natasha looks at him with an expression of deep scrutiny taking in his sling and missing finger, the cuts and scrapes on his face, flicks her eyes to Thor, who nods encouragingly, and lowers her gun. But she still holds it tightly in both hands, ready to bring the barrel up at any second.

"Why the sudden change of heart?" Steve suddenly asks.

Loki takes a breath and says, "I saw, in Asgard, how much my actions caused pain to those that I love. It led me to reflect that what I did was ultimately wrong, and hurt many that you humans in turn loved. My actions came from my own worries and troubles, and I should not have taken my emotions out on Midgard. I hope that you will accept my deepest apologies." He swallows and waits for their response.

When someone finally does speak, it is Banner, in a low, controlled voice that hums with a dangerous anger, although his face is strangely blank, "Just to make this clear – are you asking us to _forgive you_?"

"I – I don't presume –"

"Good. Because there is no way that after what you did, killing hundreds of people and going on a rampage through our world that you can ever expect us just to let that go after you say that you're _sorry_. This is not a petty argument that can be settled between friends. Countless lives have been ruined because of what you have done. We cannot forget that in a matter of days." Bruce's hands are clenched in his outburst, so unlike his usual reserve. Steve, standing next to him, takes an unconscious step back. Clint smiles mirthlessly.

Loki shakes his head. "I cannot ask that of you, not so soon after what I have done. I only wish to extend my regret, and somehow one day to regain the trust of Midgard just as I am working to gain the trust of my people."

Thor steps in to support his brother. "All Loki is asking is that you give him a chance to redeem himself."

Another stretch of heavy silence.

Then Clint says, "Fine. You've said what you have come here to say, and we'll think about it. Now get out. Get off our planet. You're not welcome here."

Loki nods in acceptance that this reply is the best that will come for the time being, and turns back to the bridge. As he goes, Tony, having confirmed that Loki is not here in attempt to attack them, calls out jauntily, "Hey, did you get mugged?" Loki looks back, frowning. "Cause I would like to personally send whoever it was that did it a fruit basket," Tony finishes.

As Loki strokes the arc reactor with the tips of his fingers, causing it to once again dance into life, he calls back in an equally light voice, "Oh, regrettably, that person is dead. I would have been happy to pass on your greetings otherwise. See you later, brother." Thor acknowledges this with a small movement of his head. Tony's smile grows slightly artificial.

The reactor's light envelops Loki's cloaked form, and he is gone, borne back to Asgard on a thread of sapphire, lancing into the sky.

In the wake of his disappearance, as Natasha tucks her handgun back into her belt, Tony looks at Banner and says, "Glad you didn't lose control. Last time you confronted that lunati – " Thor's look stops him, "ahem – troubled young man, I had to replace the floor of the penthouse."

The last of the light vanishes from sight in the high dome of the heavens.

(~~~)

It is almost night again in the throne room of the citadel, the walls a flickering myriad of sunset and yellow torchlight. The cube wavers a deep blue on its pedestal in the center of the room, and a king sits on his throne, Gungnir held in one hand, lost in the depths of the azure power.

The cube throbs, and spits a glowing line of pure light, from which Loki's form appears, before the light is retracted with a sharp _pop_ back into the source. Odin shifts and stands, walking forward to help his son up. Loki accepts the hand extended. Odin asks, "How fared it?"

"As well as can be expected, father," comes the slightly biting reply.

Odin discerns some remnant of displeasure in Loki's expression, but does not comment. He walks out to the edge of the throne room, and Loki joins him in the light of the gently appearing stars. It strikes Loki how much the scene is like that which happened days ago, on the eve of his first return, looking upon Asgard with his father beside him.

This time, it is Loki who speaks first. "Father?" he questions.

"Yes, Loki?" Odin answers, eyes resting on the distant horizon.

"The Other was but a middleman. His master will not have forgotten me so easily. There is more to come in the not so distant future."

Odin smiles. "Yes, I know, my son. Your former master will come in vengeance for his servant and his pride. But we will be ready."

Loki sighs, eyes glimmering. "It merely irks me that I am waiting for a fate that is inevitable, but not knowing when it will come upon me."

"Do not worry. When the time comes, we will face the threat together, you, your brother, and I. You are not alone. Remember this." Odin says this softly.

Loki smiles gratefully, and does not answer.

A while later, Odin says, in mirror of his words all that time ago, "I am glad you are home, my son."

"And I am glad to have returned, father." Loki looks his father in the eye as he says this.

And the stars continue in their perpetual motion on the black canvas of the sky above, Asgard in golden splendor below.

**How did you all like that? It seems fitting to bring it back full circle. Thank you all again for staying with this fic. I'll be posting one or two oneshots, mainly Loki-centric, in the next couple of months. I want to thank everybody who favourited, alerted, or reviewed throughout this fic, and I wave goodbye and hope to see you all soon *grin* :) **


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